


Antithesis

by HailMary



Series: The Small Prayer Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Rape, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:12:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HailMary/pseuds/HailMary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although John Watson has discovered how to free Moriarty's Collared, the war between the Empire and Britain rages on. To make matters worse, a deadly plague and brewing civil unrest are threatening to destroy Britain from the inside out. Can Moriarty be stopped?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue
> 
> Tags will be added as needed.

Red oak was a difficult wood to work with. The grain was unwieldy, with sinkhole-sized pores ready to catch at the slightest handling. Cutting red oak also released a curious scent, charred and astringent, like a burn ward.   

Needless to say, red oak was Henry Peter’s favourite wood to manipulate.

Henry hefted his red oak staff, the staff he’d crafted and molded and smoothed with his own hands, and drew a slow circle in the air over the crowd. Carved into the end of the staff was a tiny cross, clearly visible but small enough to give the illusion of humble piety. He’d created it specifically for his new persona; Holy Peter had such a ring to it.

The audience seethed below, malleable and hungry.

He paused for a moment and took a deep breath, filling his lungs from the bottom up with chill spring air. Green was busting out of the cracks of Hyde Park, providing an incongruous backdrop to his performance. That was alright; rhetorically speaking, contrast could be a powerful tool.

“This is punishment, my brothers, my sisters!” Henry roared from his soapbox. His voice was strong and clear and carried well. “The Adepts are punishing us for our strength! They created this plague, the plague ravaging non-Adepts in the Colonies. Humans, normal people like me and you, suffer and die while these so-called Adepts grab for power.” Angry shouts drifted up from the restless crowd, drowning the local birdsong. “I beseech you, friends: open your eyes! It’s simple cause and effect. The Empire, with their Collars, gave Adepts a taste of their own medicine. Then John Watson, John _wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing_ Watson, connives his way out of the Collar. Is it coincidence that days after the Collars start to come off, this terrible pestilence brought the Colonies to their knees? The Adepts created this plague! We frighten them, and they want us gone.”

Henry paused abruptly, letting the tension build. Appeals to pathos were key in situations such as these. Hearts persuade, not minds - logos was for the pedantic and the puerile.

He let the murmurs of the crowd swell to fill the space his voice used to occupy, then cut through them with a swing of his staff. “Make no mistake: there are no coincidences. We have allowed the cursed Adepts to go free too long. Adepts. Are. To. Blame.” He thumped his staff on the ground to punctuate the last four words. Simple messages were the best messages. “We will not be safe until they are under control.”

“Bollocks!” A small-statured woman in a tailored, dark grey trouser suit broke the surface tension of the crowd, leveling her index finger between Henry’s eyes. Judging by the fury on her face, she wished her finger were a gun. “You’re a liar. Adepts have always protected us, always!” The crowd erupted behind her in a cacophony of jeers, although a few brave souls ventured cries of agreement.

Henry trapped his satisfaction in his throat, careful not to let it show on his wide, expressive face. He quite liked his face; his borderline black eyes were almost preternaturally large, and his full-lipped mouth winged across his jaw like a bird in flight. He wasn’t traditionally handsome - his mother once told him he looked like a child’s interpretation of a person, a body conveyed using the least information possible - but he’d discovered quite early on that his unusual features were capable of astonishing displays of sincerity.

Henry put his talent to use, molding his features to the definition of earnestness. At the same time, he held up his hand, palm out. He’d been waiting for this. “They’ve protected us from what, dear lady?”

“From the Empire! Without them, we would have fallen months ago.”

“We would have fallen, or we would have been liberated?”

“How can you say that?” The woman spit at Henry’s feet and rounded on the crowd. “You all saw what Moriarty did to Princess Mary. He’s a butcher! A madman! Adept and non-Adept soldiers are fighting and dying to protect us - all of us -  and they’re not doing it so we can sit here and undermine their sacrifice.” She spun, unholstering her finger once more. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Holy Peter, indeed.”

Smiling sadly, as if he actually felt sorry for this woman, Henry surveyed the crowd before addressing his sacrificial lamb directly. “I understand your anger, sister. I sense a fight in you, and I like it.” He turned his attention back to the crowd. “But your anger is misplaced! Princess Mary’s death, while unfortunate, was also just. Our Monarchs have been the willing puppets of Adepts for years, and the Princess was aiding and abetting. James Moriarty wants to free us from the tyranny of the Aura. James Moriarty is doing God’s work. It’s only when his progress was halted that the Adepts were free to send the plague came.”

“That’s not true. King William-”

“Not true? You don’t think Adepts control every facet of the Monarchy? You don’t think they rig the system to their benefit, at the expense of the majority?” He raised his voice further, in his element. “Tell me, friends: who here has had to send children to failing schools while the Monarchy poured resources into the Praxeums?”

His audience roared in the affirmative, hundreds of faces falling into shadow as sinister clouds slid over the spring sun. Henry could smell the rain coming.

“Who has been pushed into tenements as Adepts use their stolen wealth to buy up every good inch of this city?”

The roar grew louder.

“And who has had a family member stolen and enslaved by the very villains who claim to protect us?”

Right on cue, Henry’s brown-haired, blue-eyed trump card materialized beside him. She projected her voice admirably well, the sound issuing from her diaphragm, just as he’d taught her. “I have.”

Henry held out his palm again, and raised his staff. “I believe this young lady has something to say.” He helped her onto his box, his arm around her waist. “Your name, miss?”

“I’m Carol. Carol Smith. I want everyone to know what happened.” She sounded determined, God bless her. “The Adepts...the Adepts took my sister, Jennifer. Jen was smart, so smart, and so good at her job. Her memory was incredible. She could hold a thousand tiny details in that head of hers,  then recite them all back, no mistakes.” As she continued, a tremor entered her voice. Perfect. “Three years ago, Jen quit her job and disappeared. All she left behind was a note saying she was going abroad and that we shouldn’t try to contact her. We were all suspicious, so of course we looked for her. But what could we do?” Carol brushed a tear from the apple of her pale cheek. “Then, just recently, we found her. Some top level empath in the Monarchy is using her as his PA. Her mind’s so warped by Aura she can’t remember her own name. My sister is a slave, and Holy Peter is right - the Adepts are to blame!”

The crowd went wild. Even the grey-suited woman looked taken aback.

“Do you see? Do you see what’s going on?” He nudged Carol off the box. He needed the room to stretch his arms. “Jennifer was taken _three years ago_ , well before the start of the war. The Collars were nothing more than Moriarty’s defense of humanity; Adepts enslaved us first, so Moriarty struck back. We mean nothing to them! God means nothing to them! If they cannot control us, they will destroy us, either by their plague or by their Aura. If we do not take back our country now, it will make little difference!”  

United in their outrage, the once disparate crowd of onlookers had now become a full-fledged mob. Henry finally allowed himself a genuine smile, immensely pleased at the sight. Revenge was a vicious motivator. It was time to ride the train into the station.

“I hear your hearts beating. I feel the spirit rising up in you. But we must take care! Anger is not enough. Do you want your country back? Tell everyone you know what you’ve heard today.  Spread the word! Then _do something_. Do something every day to show the Adepts that we will not be oppressed any longer. Seek out my disciples. They will teach you how.”

As Henry spoke, scattered drops of water began to fall from the bloated clouds above. By the time he stopped for air, the rain was pounding the crowd with a ferocity matched only by the crowd itself. How delightful. Pushing his wet, grey-brown hair off his forehead, Henry glanced up at the sky. He knew he did not control the weather - that was not one of his considerable talents - but at times like this, he could understand why these people believed there was someone up there taking requests. The timing could not have been more perfect if he’d planned it himself.

“We need revolution! Be revolutionary!” Simple messages were the best messages.

With that, he made his exit. Exits were just as important as entrances, though few orators of this time bothered to plan them with the care they required. Grabbing his cowled cloak from Carol, he tossed the garment over his shoulders with practiced flair and disappeared into the crowd itself.

Later that night, Henry sat alone in his small flat, watching the news and eating Chinese. The news was good news.

“ _...the mob went on to shatter the windows of several Adept-run businesses near Hyde Park. Eyewitnesses say the near-riot was incited by a man known only as Holy Peter..._ ”

Setting aside the Chinese, Henry opened his laptop. When James Moriarty had first contacted him, he’d had his doubts. Jim had wanted him to overthrow the Monarchy, and in return he’d promised him England. Jim, however, was also the kind of man who’d give you every bird in the sky, if only you could catch them yourself.

But the results so far had been astounding. Although he’d taken a gamble with the religious framework, the gamble had paid off. Throughout history, when humans have felt threatened they take hard turns toward the ends of the socio-political spectrum. They needed something to believe in. Now press coverage was through the roof, and the number of Holy Peter’s followers swelled by the hour. It helped, of course, that the Adepts actually did many of things he’d accused them of. Not the plague - that was Moriarty, one hundred per cent - but the enslavement of non-Adepts was too true. The Adepts should have known better, honestly.

Henry clicked open the file on the real head of the British Monarchy. Mycroft Holmes was smart and appropriately fond of the dramatic, but he was no front man; Holmes would wither and die if he were forced out of his shadowed web. It was time to bring him out to play.

His fingers flew across the keys as he outlined his next steps. If the people wanted fire and brimstone, that’s what they’d get. The more he typed, the wider his smile became

This was going to be a lot of fun.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock scanned through the report John had handed him when he’d entered the room. He was focusing half his attention on the page in front of him and half on the sound of John’s voice. They were deep in the belly of Barts Praxeum, in a windowless room with nothing but five uncomfortable metal chairs arranged around the circumference of a round, metal table. All the chairs were occupied: one by Sherlock, one by John, the other three by Adepts trying to learn John’s new Aura technique. In the middle of the table was one of Mycroft’s captured Collars.

“No, Simon, focus. Your touch has to be lighter. I would ask why kinetics all think like bloody wrecking balls, if the reason weren’t so bloody obvious.” In contrast to the appropriately critical slant of his words, John’s tone was friendly, amused. Sherlock had never understood John’s seemingly infinite patience, even when faced with his students’ vegetable-like levels of brain activity. “No, you’re losing it. Simon. Simon, you have to...you’ve lost it.” Sherlock’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling, practically of their own accord. This Simon was particularly thick. He could barely alter a cell, let alone the atomic structure of molecules. Of course, none of the other Adepts were nearly as good as John. “Do it again. This time, don’t hold on so tight.” There was a beat of silence. “If we’re boring you, Sherlock, you’re free to leave.”

Sherlock ignored him. He would like nothing better than to leave, clearly, but Lestrade had been clear in his text: _Come to the Yard when convenient, bring John_. John, though, stubborn fool that he was, had refused to end the class early when Sherlock had come in to fetch him. He’d handed Sherlock the report instead and told him to wait the quarter hour until the class finished.

John’s classes, while dull in the extreme, were undeniably effective. Less than forty Adepts had learned how to negate the empathic control of the Collars - extraordinarily few had the talent to replicate John’s feat, and none came close to his level of control - but those few who’d learned had already freed hundreds of Collared. Moriarty’s forward moment had been arrested.

Except, had it really? Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he considered the chart in front of him. This plague. Or, to be precise, this new strain of H1N1 influenza A tearing up the Colonies. It was fascinating, really, although he knew better than to say that to John. The virus had mutated the ability to create super strong NS1 proteins, preventing the body’s interferons from seeping into infected cells and slowing the growth of the virus. As a result, the virus was boasting a thirty per cent morbidity rate and an impressive twenty-five per cent mortality rate among the infected.

And what mortality it was. Sherlock closed his eyes to better imagine the progression of the virus through the human body. What the progress would be through his own body, if it came to that.

 _...first he would notice a dull headache, a slight pounding behind the eyes. He would start to shiver, but he would resist taking to his bed until his eyes started to burn and sting, like his eyelids had been replaced with razors. Stricken, he would curl up in a ball in his room, but no amount of blankets would keep him warm. Eventually he would drift into a semi-conscious doze, but his sleep would be restless, his muscles aching and his head throbbing. Perhaps he would realize then, even as his mind howled denial inside his skull, that his body was failing him. It would take a few hours, a couple days at the longest. His pale face would turn a dark, brownish purple. He would start to cough up blood. His feet would turn black. As the end drew near, he would struggle for breath as blood-tinged saliva bubbled out of his mouth. He would die..._    

“Sherlock.”

_...he would drown in his own fluids..._

“Sherlock. They’ve gone.”

_...his useless lungs heavy and sodden in his chest..._

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, darting to John’s fingers where they curled around his bicep.

“Are you with me?” John still sounded amused. “Why were you holding your breath?”

Sherlock stared at John blankly. Had he been holding his breath?

John’s dark blue eyes narrowed. “What’s in that report? I didn’t get the chance to read it before the class started.”

Sherlock shrugged out of John’s grip and stood, finally breaking free from the incessant pull of his thoughts. He decided to talk and walk towards the door at the same time. Movement was a relief. “The virus has taken hold in London. Brought back by the troops, obviously. If Mycroft had banned all transatlantic flights, as I’d told him, this could have been delayed until autumn. As it stands, we have almost 1,000 cases in London alone.”

“Still only non-Adepts? And the Aura still doesn’t work on it?”

“Yes. To both.”

John made a small, pained noise, like the virus offended him personally. “I’ve examined the virus through and through, but I haven’t seen anything that explains why only non-Adepts get sick. I should check again with the medical Adepts who went into infectious disease. Maybe if I cast a wider net, I’ll find someone who can figure this out.” He scrubbed his hand through his dark gold hair as he walked down the hall. He’d let it grow out while his shoulder recovered, and he’d never got around to cutting it. Sherlock approved. “Honestly, I never thought I’d find _another_ reason to hate Moriarty, but he’s made me regret choosing to be a surgeon. So. That’s one more reason. If I’d known that this would be his response to the Collar thing, I don’t know...”

“Don’t be stupid.” Sherlock did not know for sure where John had been going with that last thought, but he could deduce it well enough. As if one John weren’t worth a million ordinary people. A hundred million. “Moriarty lost one weapon, so he’s chosen another. But he has a treatment stashed somewhere. I’m sure of it. He would never put himself at risk. I only have to find it.”

They were almost to the exit. Raindrops raced each other down the glass doors, growing fat as they absorbed the smaller raindrops in their path. John sighed and changed the subject. “Did you see the news? A mob destroyed some Adept-owned businesses near Hyde Park the other day. The same lunatic was behind it again. Holy Peter. It’s getting worse, Sherlock. I hate it. And this Holy...”

Sherlock froze with his hand on the door, then shoved it open, John’s voice fading into the background.

_I hate it._

This happened on occasion, though not with the same frequency as it had in his youth. Some innocuous bit of input would strike him just the right way and catalyze a chain reaction of related information. Data led to data led to data until Sherlock felt buried in it. After years of practice, he could usually bring the deluge under control quickly. Usually.

_I hate it._

The trigger. John had said those exact words before, with exactly the same infuriating mix of exhaustion and frustration. It had been a few nights right after they’d returned to 221B. The memory welled up as they climbed into their taxi to go to the Yard, too overwhelming to avoid.

_“I hate it.”_

John had been talking about Sherlock, that time.

_“I hate it when you’re like this. You obviously care. If you want to know, just ask.”_

_Sherlock watched John settle into his brown armchair, careful to keep his injured shoulder from jostling against the armrest. Even when Sherlock believed John would never return to Baker Street, he’d still kept the chair. He sat in it, sometimes. Slept in it, when the need for sleep became unignorable._

_John looked not much better than the armchair, unfortunately, washed out and haggard. Sherlock hypothesized that his distress was generated in equal parts by his injury, Sherlock, and his parents, who had just left._

_“Why do you bother with them?” Sherlock suspected that wasn’t the question John had been after, but he couldn’t find the words to ask what he actually wanted to ask._

_“They’re my parents. I know I don’t see them often-”_

_“You see them never.”_

_“Right. Fine. I never see them. But there’s something about watching your only son get beaten to a pulp on the telly that awakens parental instinct. They wanted to see that I was alright.”_

_“And yet your sister couldn’t be bothered.”_

_John grunted loudly, unimpressed. “See, it’s this here, Sherlock. This is what I hate. You don’t give a damn about my sister or my parents. I know what you want to ask. Ask.”_

_“I don’t understand you.”_

_“I won’t get mad.”_

_“John-”_

_“Ask.”_

_Sherlock met John’s eyes, then folded himself into the other chair, his arms encircling his bent knees. “What are you doing?” No, that wasn’t right. He tried again. “Why are you back here? With me? After...what happened. It doesn’t make sense.”_

_Satisfaction and relief flashed across John’s face. “No, it doesn’t, does it.”_

_Sherlock frowned, trying to decipher John’s answer. “Why did you forgive me?”_

_“Because you’re an idiot. And I’m an idiot, I suppose.” John shifted in the chair. He looked uncomfortable. “Do you want me here?”_

_“I..” How ridiculous. He forced himself to continue, because this was important. “I want you here. That was true from the start. You were just - you complimented me and ran with me and you didn’t like Mycroft. I liked that an Adept was so...enthralled. I took advantage. I thought you would grow disenchanted with me, sooner rather than later. But you didn’t, and I didn’t recognize what that meant. I wasn’t equipped. Love is a skill like any other, one I’d never studied.” He dug his fingers into the trousers of his suit. “What I did was inexcusable, but I learned. I love you.”_

_“Yes. Well.” John cleared his throat roughly. “I love you,too.”_

_“I know. But I want to know why.” Sherlock hated how he sounded: small, confused, scared. “There are so many things about me you don’t know. I’m not like you, John. I’m not good.”_

_“Are good and bad the only two choices?” Pain stitched itself through John’s voice, holding his words together. Whether the pain was physical, mental, or some combination of the two was beyond Sherlock’s ability to figure. “I recently discovered that I am capable of altering the fabric of the universe. How, then, can I, in good conscience, believe that there are only two possible states of being? You, um, you cheated. You broke faith, you hurt me. And I am by no means over it, Sherlock. It’s not fixed. But I see all the parts of you. I know what turns the wheels in your head, and I’m not ready to call you a lost cause.”_

_John stretched out his good arm to pick up the book his mother had dropped surreptitiously on his side table when she thought he wasn’t looking. The book was bound in soft, blue-dyed leather, and John’s full name was pressed into the cover, all the letters silver. The pages were thin, like rice paper, but more opaque and edged in silver to match the cover. “This was the Bible I used when I was a kid. My mum was never subtle. She’s always known what’s right and what’s wrong. The people in here, they knew too.” He stroked the leather gently as he spoke. “I think that’s why they never seemed real. Real people don’t get seas parting and water turned to wine. Real people don’t know.”_

_Sherlock listened intently, hands clasped together. He didn’t know what John was talking about - if Sherlock had ever known about water turning to wine, he’d long since deleted it - but he knew better than to interrupt now._

_“And all those sayings. Love thy neighbor. Do unto others. They’re beautiful, of course, but they’re the kinds of things my grandmum would stitch onto her pillows. All I have is my gut, here. So, what do you think? Do you want to try to figure this out?”_

_“Yes.”_

“Sherlock.”

_“Alright. Alright, then. That’s what we’ll do. And in the meantime, we’ll bring down the Empire.”_

“Are you ignoring me? We’re here.”

_“Yes.”_

Sherlock resurfaced abruptly. His hands were steepled below his chin, though he couldn’t remember putting them there. John was already clambering out of the taxi, pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans as he moved.

Shoulders heavy with disgust, Sherlock shoved the remnants of the memory down into his subconscious and exited the taxi. His control today was atrocious. It was impossible to focus.

He swept ahead of John as they entered the Yard, grateful that John asked no questions. John simply followed, shutting the door to Lestrade’s office behind the both of them.

To Sherlock’s great dismay, Lestrade wasn’t the only one waiting in the office. Mycroft stood in the corner of the room, haunting Lestrade’s shadow like a vengeful ghost. He tipped his head slightly, one corner of his mouth ticking upward.

Sherlock stiffened, scowling, as John came up beside him. Lestrade hadn’t said Mycroft was coming when he’d texted earlier. Typical. If the day had been going badly before, it was beyond saving now.

Lestrade drained the cup of coffee he held in his hand and tossed the empty vessel in the rubbish bin. “Before you bite my head off, Sherlock, you should know that him being here wasn’t my idea. I wanted to tell you two myself. Not make such a production of it, you know-”

“Stop. Talking.” He whirled on Mycroft. “You have ten seconds.”

“A pleasure to see you as well, brother.” Mycroft came forward to wrap his long fingers around the back of Lestrade’s chair. Teeth bared, Sherlock edged closer to John. “Let’s get straight to the point then, shall we. The King is infected.”

In his peripheral vision, Sherlock could see John suck in his top lip and bite it before glancing in Sherlock’s direction. “This might take more than ten seconds.”


	3. Chapter 3

John glanced at a stone-faced Sherlock, then moved forward to sit in one of the chairs in front of Greg’s desk. Once seated, he found it easier to meet Mycroft’s gaze. A small bit easier, at least. “When did the King start presenting symptoms?”

“The King began to complain of a headache approximately five hours ago. The virus progressed quickly.” Mycroft lifted his hand from the back of Greg’s chair and rested it on the handle of his umbrella before continuing. “His Majesty is at King Edward VII Medical Praxeum.”

John looked at Sherlock again, waiting for him to say something, but Sherlock held his silence. John turned back to Mycroft. “I thought there were quarantine procedures in place for the Monarchy?”

“There were, I assure you. That’s why I felt it necessary to deliver this bit of news myself.” He paused, his voice turning the slightest bit sour. “That, and the fact that you do not respond to my messages, Sherlock. I need to know how this happened. As my employee, I am setting you the task.”

That certainly snapped Sherlock out of his funk. He sneered. “Employee? That’s an interesting hypothesis. Care to test it?”

Mycroft met Sherlock’s snarl with infuriating indifference. “Aren’t you? We had a deal, brother. You are at my disposal.” Although Sherlock didn’t move a muscle, he still gave the distinct impression of chaffing. “Even you must understand the severity of the situation. The King’s death would cause unpleasant complications for everyone involved.”

The corners of John’s mouth turned down. “Complications for you, you mean.”

Cold, level eyes met John’s across the desk. When Mycroft spoke, his normally smooth voice was so dry it grated John’s ears like sandpaper. “For everyone, John. Even you. Trust me on this, if on nothing else.”

John swallowed, his mouth suddenly full of cotton. Mycroft lied about many things, but he was undoubtedly telling the truth about this. John could only imagine what knowledge generated the utter conviction in Mycroft’s words. “If you only wanted Sherlock, then why ask me to come?”

Greg, who’d been following the exchange in apprehensive silence, shook himself and answered before Mycroft had the chance. “I wanted you here, not Mr. Holmes.”

“Just so.” Mycroft walked toward the door, stopping just before he crossed the threshold. “I’ll be waiting in the hall, Sherlock. I have some documents I’d like you to peruse. DI Lestrade. Adept Watson.” He nodded at the room in general and slipped out the door. Sherlock’s slitted eyes followed him as he left.

“Go ahead.” John waved his hand through Sherlock’s peripheral vision until the other man looked back from the door. “Let me talk to Greg.”

Sherlock’s left eye twitched like he wanted to argue, but the fight John expected never materialized. Instead, Sherlock merely stepped forward to squeeze John’s shoulder, and swept out of the room with a hastily mumbled, “I’ll text you.”

As soon as the Holmes brothers left the room, Greg relaxed in his chair. “That Mycroft’s a right terrifying wanker. There’s a rumour going around he treats his PAs like slaves. After meeting him, I believe it.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest, his face turning thoughtful. “And look at Sherlock, giving in without a fight. Er, well, much of a fight. He’s not sick, is he?”

“Of course he’s not sick.” John snapped his reply with more force than was strictly necessary, annoyed at the question. Sherlock had been in his own head all day, but that was hardly unusual and certainly didn’t indicate infection. If Sherlock were sick, John would know.

In an effort to regain his focus, John went through his breathing exercises. Greg’s terrible attempt at humour aside, John needed to change the subject. There was nothing he could do for Anthea at the moment. “We have bigger fish, Greg. The virus hasn’t been in England more than a few months and King William is already sick, even with all the Monarchy’s health protocols?”

“Yeah, that’s what Mycroft was saying. They’re investigating.”

“Yeah, well...yeah.” John rubbed circles into his temples. Things were supposed to get easier after he’d figured out the Collars. How had they ended up back at this point, back on the run? He needed to work harder on the virus, study harder. “What did you want to talk to me about? Is an asteroid about to hit the Yard?”

Greg flashed a good-humored smile, the kind of smile mates give other mates. The smile, however, was a trap. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

John’s fingers stilled and he sighed. He had been avoiding Greg. “No, I haven’t.”

“Come on. We used to go to the pub, grab a pint, watch footy. Do all the lad things Sherlock thinks he’s too good for. I’ve hardly seen you since...really, since you shipped out.”

“You want me to talk about Sherlock, don’t you?”

“If you like. Or you could talk about your time as personal prisoner of war to James fucking Moriarty. Or how you single-handedly turned around the war effort-”

John snorted. “I wouldn’t speak too soon, if I were you.”

“Whatever. Don’t change the subject. You could talk about any of those things. Or you could talk about the Bats. Or the weather. I don’t care. I only know you can’t follow Sherlock around all the time. That can’t be healthy.”

Offended and surprised, John opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I don’t hang around Sherlock all the time.”

“You have no friends.”

“I have plenty of friends.”

“Name one. And you can’t say me.”

To John’s everlasting shame, he actually thought about it. For a good ten seconds, he sat with his mouth hanging open, trying to think of a friend. Unfortunately, everyone he considered a mate was either dead, captured, or Sherlock. “Okay. Maybe you have a point.”

“Damn right I’m right.” Greg radiated smugness. It reminded John of Sherlock, which only proved Greg’s point. “Walk with me to get some food. There’s not much we can do for the King now, and we’ll be right back, I promise. You can even order some for Sherlock and nag him to eat it later. I remember how much you like that.”

Before he knew it, John had been hustled out of the Yard and down the street. It was raining, but lightly enough that any Londoner would consider it more a heavy mist than actual rain. There was a chill in the air that, while uncomfortable, was not unusual for London in springtime.

Greg grabbed the edges of his thin black coat and wrapped them tighter to his body, covering his navy suit in the process. Their destination was a Thai restaurant a few blocks away, but of course, Greg couldn’t let the journey pass in silence. “So. Why are you with Sherlock anyway?”

“I knew it. You do just want to talk about Sherlock.”

“I just know what he did is all. Not to say I told you so...but I did tell you so. And from what I understand, he did as well. It doesn’t make it any better, mind you, but I always took you as the loyal sort, and one who values loyalty in return. When Sherlock turned up and said you’d forgiven him, I’ll admit I was surprised.”

John glanced at Greg in disbelief. “He told you that?”

“Not in so many words, no, but I read between the lines. I am a good detective, regardless of what Sherlock says.”

When John looked into Greg’s dark brown eyes with their wrinkles in the corners, he could see nothing but sincerity. “I do value loyalty, but this wasn’t about loyalty. I don’t think so, anyway. It was about fear, and we’re dealing with that. I only know that when I was out in the field getting flaming chunks of concrete thrown at my head, and then when I was getting my face smashed in by Moriarty’s goon, it didn’t make sense to draw lines in the sand anymore.”

“Fair enough. How’s that working out?"

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Greg tried to catch John’s eye again, but John stared resolutely at the rain-darkened pavement. After it became clear John wasn’t going to elaborate, Greg shrugged and let the subject drop.

The silence continued into the restaurant. John wouldn’t mind talking to Greg, but he didn’t know what to say. Sherlock had been quieter than usual lately, moodier, angrier. While that was probably down to Moriarty, John couldn’t stop his heart from stuttering erratically when Sherlock disappeared from the flat or stabbed his knife into the mantle over and over and over. Forgiveness was an easy word to say, but a difficult one to put into practice.

Maybe that’s why John followed Sherlock everywhere. That wasn’t something he could tell Greg though. They ordered.

While they sat waiting for their food to cook, a group of four men walked through the door. They were young, clean-cut, nondescript. One of the group, an average-looking bloke using an extraordinary amount of hair gel, did a double take when he saw John.

The restaurant was small, but not busy, and Hair Gel did not have to raise his voice when he spoke. “Are you John Watson?” As he spoke, his three companions whipped their heads around for closer looks.

“I am.” Although being recognized felt strange, to say the least, it was not an infrequent occurrence. For the first few months after John had recovered from his time in the Colonies, he’d been recognized nearly every time he went out. He did his best to handle the extra attention with polite cheerfulness, though that was difficult when Sherlock was around. Sherlock absolutely loathed the unwelcome intrusions, as he saw them, and he seemed to take a savage enjoyment in sending innocent autograph seekers running in the opposite direction.

Hair Gel exchanged an unreadable look with his companions and jerked his head toward the door. Without another word, they exited the restaurant.

Amused, Greg grinned and shook his head. “Does that happen often? People are so star struck they can’t be in the same room as you?”

“Hardly.”

By then, their food was ready. When they exited the restaurant and saw no one, John put the group of boys out of his mind.

As they reached the halfway point between the Thai place and the Yard, John pulled out his phone to text Sherlock that they were on their way back with food. Greg was on the phone as well, nodding his head as he listened to the person on the other end of the line.

Perhaps that’s why it was a surprise when a heavy cloth sack came down over John’s head, completely blocking the weak, grey London light.

He couldn’t see, but he could feel two attackers, one behind him holding the sack and one in front of him, punching at his head and stomach. The sounds of grunts and shuffling feet let him know that Greg was receiving similar treatment a few paces away. Luckily for them, the attackers seemed strictly amateur; judging from the placement and force of his punches, the man attacking John clearly had no idea how to inflict real damage on a human body.

That was not to say enthusiastic amateurs couldn’t cause damage. John grunted in pain as a fist connected with his jaw.

Centering himself, John drew on the Aura, carefully considering the best way to go about this. Amateur as they were, the attackers had still known enough to block John’s sight. As a medical Adept, John relied on precision and accuracy to make changes to the human body – the tiniest mistake could be fatal – but it was enormously difficult to be precise or accurate when trying to hit a moving target you can’t see.

There were other ways, however. John gathered his legs underneath him and sprung back into the person holding the hood, knocking the man to the ground. John fell on top of him and twisted, finding the man’s face with his hand. He let the Aura race along the connection created by skin-to-skin contact, allowing it to flow into the man’s mind. From there, it was the work of a moment to pinch the right nerves. The man was out in seconds.

John ripped the hood off his head, already moving to face the attacker who’d been throwing the punches. It was Hair Gel. His face was alight with hatred and mindless malice. “John Watson, King of the Scum, wolf among the sheep. I hope you burn in hell.” Fist cocked, Hair Gel moved to strike, but John took him down with a thread of Aura before the blow fell.

Satisfied, John turned his attention to Greg, but Greg already had his situation well in hand. One boy was rolling on the ground, groaning in pain and clutching at his groin, while Greg locked the other into handcuffs. Yes, definitely amateurs. To be safe, John put those two under as well. The entire encounter was over in less than a minute.

Freed from the effort of restraining the boy, Greg grabbed his dropped phone. Whoever had been on the other line when they were attacked must have still been there, because Greg didn’t have to dial before he started explaining the situation. When he finished, he hung up and gave John an appraising look. “You alright?” Once John nodded, Greg continued. “Sally is sending some people. They should be here in a few minutes.” He glared at the unconscious boys contemptuously. “This is the lot from the restaurant. Stupid fucking tossers. Who attacks an Adept and a DI three blocks away from Scotland Yard? Britain is going to the fucking dogs.” He kicked at the Thai food, now spilled across the wet pavement. “And they owe me ten quid.”

John rubbed his shoulder, the one that’d been shot. It was healed, but it still ached sometimes, no matter how much Aura John poured into it. “They’re followers.”

“What?” Greg’s eyes were narrowed quizzically, his mouth pulled down in a frown.

“Followers. Of Holy Peter. That one-” John gestured toward Hair Gel, “-called me a wolf among sheep. That’s what Holy Peter calls me.”

“That nutter who started the riot yesterday?”

“That nutter, yes.” John answered, but he was distracted by Sherlock, who was running up the street, his coat flapping in the cold breeze. Several of Greg’s team were behind him.

Sherlock stopped just short of John, breathing only slightly harder than normal. He took in the scene on the pavement, his nose wrinkling with disgust. “So they’re attacking Adepts in the street now. Idiots.”

John nodded and let his hand drop from his shoulder. “I told you things were getting bad. This Holy Peter is no joke, Sherlock. He has influence.”

“With the weak-minded, certainly.” Sherlock looked John up and down, stopping when they got to his jaw. “You let them land a punch? Lestrade doesn’t have a scratch on him.” He reached up to trace the outline of the darkening bruise with a long finger and smiled lightly, teasing. “Should I be embarrassed for you?”

John pushed Sherlock’s hand away, but he smiled too. He directed some Aura at his tender jaw. “They hooded me. And Greg had the easy ones.”

“Whatever you say.” Sherlock captured John’s hand and tugged him back toward the Yard. “Come on, John. I need to get started.”

John tried to recapture his hand, but failed. “On the King stuff? I’ll be there as soon as I can, but I need to give a statement about this.” He waved his hand in the direction of the bodies.

“No, not the King stuff. He’ll either die or he won’t. I’m talking about the break in at Judes medical Praxeum in Scotland. Someone wanted access to Britain’s viral research records, and I need to know why.”  


	4. Chapter 4

“Nothing was taken. Nothing. Nothing except a single laptop, and that was an afterthought. Drawers were pulled out, rubbish bins overturned, but nothing of value was touched.” Sherlock clasped his violin closer to his chest and plucked a few random notes. He shook the silk of his dressing gown off his wrists when the fabric got in the way of his plucking. “Nothing. Why nothing? It’s like they wanted to break in just to say they’d broken in. It must be for something clever. Moriarty is clever. He wanted this to be recorded. Why?"

John, who’d been half-listening to Sherlock’s ramblings since they’d made it back to the flat, frowned at Sherlock’s words. “I realize you’re not talking for my benefit, but could you not praise Moriarty’s genius when I’m around?” Usually John let it go when Sherlock went on about Moriarty, but not today. After the attack and the news of the King’s illness, he didn’t feel indulgent.   

Sherlock flicked his eyes in John’s direction from where he was lying on the sofa. “It’s true. Moriarty is clever.” He angled his gaze back at the ceiling and plucked a few more notes out of his violin. “Clever, clever.”

“Oh, yeah?” John slammed the spoon he was holding on the kitchen table, rattling his cereal where it floated in his milk. It was far from a satisfactory dinner, but his lunch had been ruined by the kids from the restaurant and there was precious little else in the flat. His anger went up a notch as he remembered that he’d actually been grateful that there’d been unspoiled milk in the fridge. “I know you were in one of your moods this morning and this break in turned you around, but seriously, if this is what you’re going to be like, I’d prefer a sulk.”  

Sherlock sat up slowly. He braced his violin between his thighs and tightened his grip on the neck. “You’re angry with me.” Although the words came out as a statement, Sherlock’s hesitation turned them into a question. He was always hesitant, these days, when he didn’t know exactly why John was angry. “This isn’t about...John, you promised you’d tell me.”

As the silence stretched between them, John felt himself softening. He’d committed to this. He may as well make the effort, hard as it was. “Yes. Or, no. I mean, yes, I’m upset, but it isn’t about that.” He picked up his spoon and tapped it lightly against the table, over and over, without thinking.

Sherlock’s eye twitched. “What, then?”

“I want to know why you’re so blasé about everything.”   

“About Moriarty? If you believe me to be blasé about the man who nearly stole you from me, you’re gravely mistaken.”

“No.” John abandoned his cereal and pushed back from the table. The screech of the chair legs against the kitchen floor made his teeth ache. It felt good in a perverse way. How appropriate. “About today.”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted in a disdainful smirk. The deep shadows in the flat found every nook and cranny in his face, deepening the lines until he looked far older than his thirty years. The expression was shockingly ghoulish, though John was sure the effect was mainly his imagination. “Those fools? Irrational zealots, John. Unorganized, fearful, inconsequential.”  

“You can’t ignore this just because it doesn’t interest you. I have a bad feeling about it.”

John knew that was the wrong thing to say as soon as he said it. Sherlock’s eyes practically disappeared into the back of his head. “Oh, well then, John, why didn’t you say that from the start. You have a _feeling_!”

In Sherlock’s life, how many people had described him as weird? How many had suggested that his mind was not just different, but malformed, twisted in some way? John knew those people were wrong. Sherlock wasn’t twisted. Yes, he telescoped in on whatever held his interest rather than understand that thing in its emotional context, but that was because his mind understood the world by taking it apart and examining the pieces. Disdain for feelings was self-defense, to a mind like his.   

John held on hard to that thought. It was the only reason he didn’t throw his spoon at Sherlock’s head.

“No, don’t...can we not do this now?” John walked out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, stopping just short of the sofa. He fell to his knees, pulling the violin from its place between Sherlock’s thighs and setting it on the cushion. “Let’s go back to my original complaint. I don’t mind you talking about Moriarty. It’s your job. Our job. But I’m serious, Sherlock. I hate it when you talk about him the same way he talked about you.”

“You hate it.” The majority of the creases cleared abruptly from Sherlock’s face, leaving only one deep line directly between his brows. The difference was startling. Instead of looking older, Sherlock now looked younger, much younger. As young as he had when John had first seen him, half-dead in a Barts operating room. “I can’t promise you I won’t do it again.”

John sighed softly, his chin falling towards his chest. He put a hand on each of Sherlock’s cotton-covered knees and squeezed before catching Sherlock’s eyes. “I know. Do what you can though, yeah? You can do a lot.”

In response, Sherlock leaned forward and caught John’s lips in a soft kiss.

The sudden move caught John off guard, although he wasn’t sure why. It was true that they didn’t touch as often as they had before the...separation, if that was the right thing to call it. At first, the distance was only because he was healing, but it had lingered and lingered. Starting over is easier to say than do, apparently.

Not that they still weren’t good together. John felt Sherlock’s fingers circle his wrists and draw his arms around Sherlock’s waist, bringing them closer together.

Just as they really got going, John’s mobile went off, beeping shrilly from the pocket of his jeans. Sherlock broke the kiss, pursing his lips in annoyance. His own mobile went off a second later. “It’s Lestrade.”

Eyebrow arched, John retrieved his mobile from his pocket with one hand and kept the other on Sherlock’s hip. He checked the screen. “Yeah, it’s Lestrade. How did you know that?”

“If it were just my phone, it could be anyone. The only people who text you, however, are Lestrade, your mother, and myself. Your mother would never contact you this late. It’s obviously not me. Therefore, Lestrade.”

“That’s it? You, Greg, and my mum?” John grimaced. “God, that’s pathetic. I do need some mates.”

“What?”

“Just something Greg said today.” He took his hand off Sherlock’s hip and opened the message. When he saw the contents, he closed his eyes and leaned back, feeling very heavy.

Sherlock leaned forward, following the momentum of John’s body. “So it’s happened?”

“Yes.” He opened his eyes. “His lungs were, ah, basically soup at end, according to Greg. The King is dead.”

****

* * *

 

“So. The King is dead.” Lestrade’s face held traces of impersonal grief, enough to fulfill his assumed obligation to a monarch he’d never met. He looked exhausted. “That means the succession is shot to hell. What, with Princess Mary killed last year and her daughter only eight years old.”

Sherlock leaned against the wall of Lestrade’s office, where he now found himself for the second day in a row. He’d wanted to come to the Yard anyway, to go over the files from the break in, but the King’s death meant that would have to wait.

John was there too, of course, sitting in his usual chair. John, who, with darkness smudged around his eyes, looked as exhausted as Lestrade. John, who had painstakingly detailed Sherlock’s faults last night while eating a bowl of cereal. John, who had stiffened for just a moment when Sherlock kissed him. John, who said he forgave and probably even believed it.

John, who spoke next with only a touch of bitterness. “I’m sure Mycroft has the Monarchy well in hand.”

“Mycroft? His office is acting as the Yard’s liaison with the Monarchy at the moment, if that’s what you mean.” Lestrade’s eyes tightened. “They’ve decided not to release news of the King’s death until tomorrow. They want to control how this comes out, and Friday is the best day to give bad news.”  

“You know, Greg. I think you and Mycroft are right. I was captured on a Friday. It really softened the blow.” John levered himself out of the chair. When Lestrade began stuttering in protest, John cut him off with a stern look. He had that effect on people. “No, don’t say anything. I know what you meant. I didn’t sleep last night, is all.” He made his way across the room, brushing against Sherlock on his way to the door. “Too much is happening.”

Concerned, Sherlock tracked John with his eyes as he spoke to Lestrade. “We’re getting the break in files. Don’t bother us.”

Sherlock spent the rest of the day at the Yard with John, splitting his focus between the break in case and the King’s death. The King’s death wasn’t a case per se, but Mycroft was, infuriatingly enough, correct. The King had become infected suspiciously fast. It had the potential to be interesting, certainly.

Time slipped away without Sherlock’s notice, as it always did when he retreated into his mind palace. He spoke aloud most of the time, using the sound of his voice to channel his thoughts. John would answer when the mood struck him, usually something completely obvious that nevertheless sent Sherlock’s mind spinning off in a multitude of new directions.

All things considered, the day was quite pleasant. He should have known it wouldn’t last.

Sometime after the sun went down, a drudge knocked on the door of the empty office he and John were occupying. The man looked shocked and vaguely terrified. “Moriarty’s broadcasting another message over our civilian channels. D.I. Lestrade sent me to tell you.”

Sherlock crowded the drudge out the door and slammed it behind the man, then turned to John. “We need to watch this. John?”

John, face completely impassive, answered by turning on the television hanging in the corner of the room. Moriarty appeared on the screen, his face moving spastically as John scrolled back to the beginning of the recording.

Instead of the cavernous warehouse room with the drain in the floor, Moriarty was seated this time in a richly appointed study with the red and white flag of the Empire draped over the wall behind him. He sat at a massive oak desk - except, no, that was mahogany, the pores were too fine for oak. The setting was no doubt intended to make a statement, especially that desk. The highly polished wood conjured images of darkly spreading pools of blood.

“Greetings, British citizens.” Moriarty’s voice was low and measured, the manic light in his liquid eyes tightly reigned. Everything about him was carefully calculated to project authority. He was shamming, obviously. “I come to you today with grave tidings. You are being lied to.”

John snorted, looking murderous.

“As you are all aware, the plague that has been ravaging North America is gaining momentum in the Continent and the British Isles. The disease cares not for the divisions we’ve created among ourselves. My people suffer alongside yours. Nationality is no guarantee of safety. To date, the only people unaffected by the plague are those you call Adepts.”

“The Adepts have always occupied a privileged position in British society. They are seen as benevolent protectors, servants of all. The trust that you have given these so-called Adepts is what makes their betrayal all the more despicable.”

Moriarty leaned forward, clasping his hands together on the desk. “It pains me to tell you that I have recently uncovered evidence that this plague is not natural. My administration has recovered documents from a medical research Praxeum in Scotland that explain in great detail exactly how the Adepts engineered this disease in order to regain control of their actual enemies: the rest of us.”

Sherlock glanced away from the screen briefly as John slammed his fist into the wall.

“I have long suspected that the Adepts did not have our best interests at heart. That is why I developed the Collars, as a means of protection and a way to level the playing field. My actions, however, have had unforeseen consequences. In response to the success of the Collars, Adepts have taken drastic, lethal action to maintain the upper hand.”

“Unfortunately, their drastic action does not stop with the disease itself.” Moriarty’s voice softened with sorrow. He really was an excellent actor. “Reliable sources inform me that two nights ago, King William was infected under extremely suspicious circumstances. Last night at 11:38 P.M., King William died, his body unable to fight the terrible progression of the disease created by his most trusted advisors. Your King was assassinated.”

“Which begs the question, who is in charge now? You deserve to know.” Moriarty paused dramatically, letting the anticipation build. Finally, Moriarty made a small gesture and a photo of Mycroft was inserted in the air next to his head. “This is Mycroft Holmes, the man in charge. He is an empathic Adept, and his skills in manipulation and subterfuge are notorious. Last night, the Adepts in your country managed to carry out a coup de grâce without anyone being the wiser.”

“In spite of this dire news, I implore you, do not despair. A stroke of fate has delivered a possible solution to the Adept problem into our hands. While gathering evidence at the Praxeum in Scotland, my agents also recovered samples of what we have determined to be a cure for the plague. I will soon be distributing the treatment to all those who live within the bounds of the Empire. I would like nothing more than to deliver the treatment to those in Britain and the Colonies as well; however, the Adepts are preventing that from happening.”

“If you want this cure, I need you to ally with me. You must recognize that whatever has happened between us in the past, our true enemy was never each other - we always had one common enemy: the Adepts. The Uncollared. If you can wrest control of your country back from them, we have a chance to survive this, together. Of course, to prove my sympathy for your plight, I will be offering a payment of 10,000 credits for every dead Uncollared delivered to the Empire’s soldiers.”

Sherlock’s hands tightened into fists before he could stop them. Everyone knew John was an Adept. Everyone.

“The good news is, there is already one courageous individual working inside London itself to stop the scourge of the Uncollared: Holy Peter. Look to Holy Peter for guidance in this trying time. He can provide the leadership you need to save yourselves.”

Finally, Moriarty smiled. It was a warm smile, and sad. “I do not know how many times I’ll be able to speak to you like this. I only want to help. Good night, and good luck.”

The recording ended.

“People won’t actually believe that. They can’t, there’s no way.” John was pacing around the office, utterly incapable of keeping still. “He’s twisted everything! Half of it doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to. People are stupid, John.” Sherlock’s phone lit up with Mycroft’s name. “And scared people are a hundred times worse.” He accepted the call.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock jammed the phone against his ear. “What?”

“You picked up.” Mycroft’s voice was oil spilled on dry leaves. The slightest friction could set the whole brittle pile ablaze. “I’ve been receiving quite a bit of attention today. I’ll have to be careful not to let it go to my head.”  

“Do you have a specific request, or is this a social call?”

Sherlock could feel Mycroft gritting his perfect teeth in the beat of silence before he answered. “You had one task, Sherlock. In return for John’s life, all I asked was that you keep track of Moriarty. Inform me of any impending...policy changes. You have failed to hold up your end of the bargain. You have failed spectacularly.”

Frustration laced with shame twisted in Sherlock’s chest, kicking itself into a hateful whirlwind; the truth of Mycroft’s accusation could not be denied. That did not mean, however, that Mycroft deserved the satisfaction of an acknowledgement. Sherlock spun on his heel, turning his back to the office. “You should be used to that by now, shouldn’t you, brother?” Hand spasming around his mobile, Sherlock decided to light the match and throw it. “Mummy’s been spinning in her grave since the moment we buried her in it.”

As he’d expected, fire crackled in Mycroft’s voice, but it was frigid fire, rendered in muted shades of grey and blue. “Don’t be a fool. Mummy was done with you long before she passed. I’m the only one you disappoint now.” A carefully considered pause. “Although I suppose I can add John to that number. You do have a talent, don’t you?”

The whirlwind in Sherlock’s chest spun faster, picking up shards of sorrow and regret that he hadn’t yet managed to bury.

“Which reminds me: I am taking your doctor. As of right now, he is also in my personal employ. He is to give up his teaching, and spend every available moment studying this disease and replicating the cure. In the meantime, my agents have been instructed to obtain a sample by any means necessary. You are to assist them-”

Sherlock hung up as violently as he knew how. He’d known that his failure would have consequences, and Mycroft could not have picked a more painful punishment. He was insinuating himself into every facet of Sherlock’s life, professional and personal. It was what Sherlock had been trying to avoid, one way or another, since he was old enough to understand what Mycroft was, what the entire Holmes clan was like.   

But then John had walked into his hospital room, and Sherlock had found himself making compromises he’d never thought possible. Sherlock cast a dark look over his shoulder, expecting to see John pacing the far side of the office as he’d been doing when Sherlock had taken the call.

He wasn’t. Sherlock’s eyes slid down to where John hunched against the opposite wall, one hand pressed to the back of his neck and the other clutched to his chest. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breaths quick and far too shallow.  

“John?” Sherlock was across the room in a heartbeat. “John!” He knelt down next to his trembling friend and reached out, but stopped short of touching him. Sherlock had read once that physical contact could worsen a panic attack, and this was obviously a panic attack. He didn’t want John to feel trapped.   

To his immense frustration, that left Sherlock with little idea what to do. Should he say something? What does one say when the most important person in one’s life is shaking apart in front of them? This wasn’t his area. This was his problem. This was John’s area, but John was the one who needed emotional support. Maybe he should look it up on his mobile.

Sherlock watched as tears began to push from under John’s tightly clamped eyelids, escaping down his blotchy red cheeks and disappearing into his plaid button-up. It wasn’t crying as Sherlock had ever seen it; John seemed completely unaware it was happening.

“John?” Sherlock forced himself to sound calm. Two emotional people would help nothing. “I need you to tell me what to do.” When John didn’t respond, Sherlock tried again. “Tell me how to help you.”

Finally, John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. “I can’t...” His skin was beaded with sweat, his hair dampening. “This feels like dying. I feel like I’m dying.” The whispered words were so filled with fear that Sherlock shuffled back involuntarily. They sounded nothing like the strong, stable John he knew. “The Aura...I can’t reach it. _I can’t reach it_.”

“You’re not calm enough.”

“No, you don’t understand. You don’t understand. _He’s coming for me_.”

As if the words were prophecy, the door to the unused office flew open. John flinched, then half-rolled, half-crawled into the shadow of the desk.

Thankfully, the opener of the door was Lestrade. His jacket was off and his silver hair was askew, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. “Hey, did you guys - what’s happening in here?”

“He’s having a panic attack.” Sherlock flicked his eyes away from Lestrade and back to where John had his back pressed against the desk. He hated how relieved he was that he didn’t have comfort John on his own.

“How’s that?” Alarm quickening his movements, Lestrade swung the door closed and crossed to where Sherlock still knelt on the floor. As he drew even with the desk, he caught his first real glimpse of John, eyes narrowing dangerously at the state of him. “Oh, fuck that insane, megalomaniacal goatfucker. Moriarty can fuck himself with a shovel, I swear.”

Although Sherlock was very much in favor of that idea, he couldn’t let Lestrade get sidetracked. “You can start being useful any time now.”

“Yeah, right.” Lestrade crouched beside John, careful to keep a few meters between them. “John? You’re having a panic attack. Nod if you understand me.”

John nodded.

“Great. That’s brilliant. Then you understand how important it is for you to breath right now. I’m going to count breaths for you, and I want you to breath with me. Nod if you can do that.”

John nodded again.

“Alright, we’re going to do this just like at the Praxeum. In through the nose for two counts, hold for two counts, and out through the mouth for two counts. Okay? So, in through the nose, one, two. Hold, one, two. Out through the mouth, one, two. In, one, two. Hold, one, two. Out, one, two...”

Minutes passed. Lestrade gradually increased the count until John had calmed enough to breath in for four beats, hold for three, and breath out for six. Sherlock sat back on his heels and watched in silence as Lestrade pulled John back from the precipice.

Eventually, John reached out his hand and grasped Lestrade’s knee. “You can stop counting now. The worst is over, I think. I have the Aura.” He sounded completed wrung out.

Sherlock watched, still silent, as Lestrade took John’s hand and held it in his own. “You’re safe here, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

“You feel up to getting off the floor?”

“Yeah. I mean, I mainly feel embarrassed, but if you’ll just give me a hand-”

Lestrade heaved himself to his feet, then bent over to grasp John’s forearms and haul him up as well. John rubbed the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his jacket and leaned around Lestrade to look at Sherlock. Whatever he saw in Sherlock’s face made the frown lines deepen around his mouth.  “I’d rather you hadn’t seen that. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.”

Sherlock stood, carefully smoothing his features to neutral. John was sorry? What a completely irrational man. “Don’t be stupid.”

John took a few quivering steps toward the door, waving his hand in front of Lestrade’s incredulous face as he went. “Don’t look at him like that, Greg. He’s decided I’m well enough to insult. It’s reassuring.”

On any other day, Sherlock would have shot them both a withering look. Today, though, he simply wrapped an arm around John’s waist and helped him to the door. “We should go, John. You’re practically asleep as is, and I have things to tell you.”

“Mmmm. Sounds like a plan.”

John fell asleep immediately on the taxi ride home, his head lolling on Sherlock’s shoulder. It couldn’t be the most comfortable place to lay one’s head, but Sherlock wasn’t about to complain. He slid his mobile out his pocket and opened a new text.

_I have a condition. SH_

He sent the text, and thirty seconds later his phone lit with a response.

_Of course. MH_

_Protection for John. Effective immediately. SH_

_Done. MH_

* * *

   

The next day saw John looking a great deal better. He was determined to pretend that his post-broadcast breakdown yesterday had never happened, and Sherlock was content to let that stand.

“I don’t actually have a problem with this.” John was sitting at the table with one of Sherlock’s chemistry texts open to the left of his plate and a medical text open to the right. Mid-morning sun streamed in through the front windows, enriching the horizontal blue stripes on John’s long-sleeved shirt. Unlike the frumpy castoffs  John usually wore, Sherlock liked this shirt; it made John look years younger, and the darker shade of navy brought out his eyes.

“This is what I should be doing anyway. Mycroft is right. Besides, the more I revise, the more I remember. It’s like uni all over again.”

“Mycroft is right? Are you trying to get back at me for talking about Moriarty?”

“But Mycroft _is_ right.”

“And Moriarty _is_ brilliant. That doesn’t stop you from starting a row every time I say it.”

John didn’t rise to the bait, choosing to calmly turn the page of the chemistry text instead. “The circumstances are a bit different there, don’t you think?”

Sherlock grimaced and went back to scrolling through his email. Physically, no, the circumstances were not the same, and Moriarty would answer for that. In the ways that counted most, however - mentally, psychologically - Mycroft was as violent as Moriarty had ever been.

John finished his toast and pushed his plate away. “Are you getting dressed? I thought you said Mycroft was sending over a security consultant at eleven. That’s in twenty minutes.”

This time, Sherlock rolled his eyes before going back to his email. He would rather spend his day chit chatting with strangers at the supermarket than put forth the smallest effort for the sake of Mycroft’s minion, even if they were coming at Sherlock’s request. It was the principle of the thing.

When the consultant arrived, Sherlock engaged in a brief staring match with John until John gave up with a sigh and closed his book. He listened closely as John thumped down the stairs, opened the door, and offered a generic greeting.

When he heard the voice that answered in return, his body jerked involuntarily, nearly dislodging the laptop from his legs.

Of course. Of course, Mycroft would do this. A price for absolutely everything.

“Hey, Sherlock, this is Marcelle Amorim, our security consult.”

Daughter of an English mother and a Brazilian father, Marcelle had long, dark hair tied back in a professionally slick ponytail and dusky brown skin. She wore no make up. She looked fit, healthy, and nothing like the Marcelle tucked away in a back room of his mind palace. Perhaps that was because Sherlock had never seen her when he wasn’t high.     

“We’ve met.” Her voice was the same: smooth, sophisticated, highly intelligent, and completely even. It gave away nothing. “In fact, we go way back.”

“Really?” John looked back and forth between the two of them, surprised and faintly amused. “I’m sorry. I hear he was a real tosser back in the day. Not that he isn’t still.”

Marcelle tilted her head in John’s direction, her eyes tightening by the smallest degree. “You have no idea.”

Sherlock set the laptop aside, fighting the urge to wrap his crimson dressing gown around his body and cinch it closed. If he could find a way to cut out the part of his brain that generated guilt, he would perform the surgery right now on the coffee table without hesitation. “Working for Mycroft? I see your standards haven’t improved.”

“Better than working for you.”

“You never worked for me.”

“Ah, that’s right. It’s hard to manage anything when you’re passed out in your own vomit.”

Sherlock had to exert himself to avoid glancing at John, but couldn’t stop a scowl from curling his lips. “If you don’t want to be here, then by all means, feel free to leave.”

The expression on her face called him an idiot more eloquently than words ever could. “When Mr. Holmes tells me to do something, I do it.”

They glared at each other across the sitting room.

“Excuse me.” John stepped between the two of them, a mixture of exasperation and confusion present in the tension of his shoulders. “I don’t know what this is, but it stops now. If you don’t think you can do this, Ms. Amorim, I’m sure we can find someone who can.”

Marcelle shifted her attention to John immediately, the epitome of professionalism. “That won’t be necessary, Adept Watson. I apologize, and I promise you, it won’t happen again. If you’ll take a seat, we can begin.”

John accepted her apology with a curt nod. As soon as Marcelle was distracted pulling floor plans and transportation itineraries out of her files, however, John mouthed the words _passed out in your own vomit_ in Sherlock’s direction and gave him a look that clearly communicated _we will be talking about this later_.

Vague references to a troubled past weren’t going to cut it anymore, obviously. Mycroft deserved to be beheaded by an angry mob.

For the next ninety minutes, the three of them sat together awkwardly and discussed how best to keep John safe from bodily harm in the wake of Moriarty’s announcement. Many of the measures chafed - they were to use private, secure cars instead of taxis, for instance - but Sherlock was confident he could get around the rules if the need arose. All the bother was for John’s sake anyway; as long as this kept yesterday’s fear out of John’s eyes, Sherlock would tolerate whatever he had to tolerate.


	6. Chapter 6

Once upon a time, someone told her destiny was real.

Granted, it was a strung out kid with a vicious sneer and dark stains on the cuffs of his ivory shirt. Whatever he’d taken made focusing his eyes a struggle; he squinted hard in her direction, like she was a vague shape glimpsed through fogged glass. He smelled unwashed.

In spite of that, he still managed spectacular condescension.

_“We are slaves to genetics and environment. There is nothing else.” The slur in his words made him difficult to understand over the pulsing bass in the next room. She leaned a little closer._

_“What about rolling a die?”_

_“There is no such thing as an independent event. Odds do not exist. Luck does not exist. Logic is the only advantage.”_

_“And choice?”_

_“Delusion.” The kid waved his long-fingered hand dismissively, voice flat. “We have neither choice nor prerogative. The future is, in most cases, frustratingly unpredictable, but that does not mean it is not fixed. In the face of space and time, we are flies pinned to the wall by our wings.”_

_At that point, the strung out kid’s companion - an aggressively handsome man with absolutely no stains on his cuffs - turned away from his people watching and ruffled the kid’s unkempt hair with manicured fingers. The kid scowled fiercely and slapped the man’s hand away, but the man only laughed. “So dramatic.” He leaned across the table to talk to her. “Is he bothering you? He’s usually more of a laugh after a few hits, but every so often he’ll take a philosophical turn. No need to humour him.”_

_The kid answered for her, shoving the man back forcefully and nearly toppling them both from their chairs. The man laughed, delighted. “Fine, fine. I can take a hint.” He stood, throwing a conspiratorial wink in her direction. “If you get bored of him, I’ll be upstairs.”_

_The kid managed to glare at the man’s retreating back, an impressive feat given the circumstances. Still watching the man, he spoke again. “Ask your question.”_

_She took a moment to consider. She had many questions. Why are you here? Why are you here with him?  Or, Don’t you know you’re better than this? Or even, What is your name?_

_Instead, she asked: “You believe in fate, then?”_

_He tore his glassy, pale eyes from the staircase. “I believe there is no escape. No matter how hard one tries.”_

At the time, she hadn’t been convinced. The kid was lost, wounded, and, most tellingly, he was human. Humans have a pathological need to organize the chaos of the universe into easily digestible narratives. Certainly, biology and environment make some outcomes more likely than others, but destiny? It seemed like nothing more than patterns of shadow dancing across the surface of a restless mind.

And she should know. As an empathic Adept, if she had one area of expertise, it was the human mind.

Now, as the mob parted in front of her to allow Holy Peter an unimpeded path to the edge of the bridge, she finally believed. This had to be destiny. She had to believe this unrelentingly horrific world was an inevitability, and not the pointless waste it appeared.

Today had been her second day of leave after eighteen months of combat duty in the Colonies. She’d lived in constant fear of the Collar. That was, until John Watson - and there wasn’t an Adept alive who didn’t know his name - had beat the Collar, and in the heart of Moriarty’s Empire no less. After that, she’d thought she could relax. She’d let down her guard.

She never expected to be Collared in the streets of London. They’d taken her by surprise. There hadn’t been time to grab hold of the Aura, let alone use it.  

Holy Peter arrived at the head of the mob and exchanged pleasantries with the two men who gripped her arms tightly. The restraint was purely symbolic. She’d already been ordered not to move, not to speak, and she did not have the fine control to pull off Watson’s trick. Very few did.

“Witness, my friends! With the death of this abomination we come one step closer to purity! To the cure! To our salvation!” Holy Peter raised his staff high in the air and tilted his head back, gathering the adulation of the crowd into himself.

Her arms were released, but only to allow her hands to be tied behind her back with a length of thick hemp rope. Moments later, Holy Peter himself draped the noose around her neck, turning it gently until the knot rested below her ear.   

“Do you have any last words? Anything you’d like to repent?” Holy Peter gestured benevolently with his staff, his inky black eyes trapping light like black holes. “You may speak, girl.”

She could only think of one thing to say. “My name...” Her voice was thin, compressed almost to nothing by fear and resignation.

“What was that? A little louder, please.”

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin and projected her voice into the mob. “My name is Mae.”

At the edge of the mob, near to the front, a little girl in a green dress stood holding her father’s hand. Mae watched as the little girl mouthed her name, eyes wide. _Mae? Mae._

Two men lifted Mae onto the rail. The river below was moving quickly, grey and swollen with spring melts and rain. The air smelled briny, and tasted like salt and oil.  

Holy Peter moved to stand in front of her, resting both hands on her stomach. “May God have mercy on your soul.” He pushed.

Mae closed her eyes as gravity led her, inexorably, to the end of the rope.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stalked back and forth across the shadowy sitting room, restless energy propelling his movements. “There are mobs roaming the streets.”

John continued to thread his arms through the sleeves of his jacket and answered with the same calm patience he’d displayed all night. If Sherlock weren’t so used to being tolerated, it might bother him. “I’m going.” He sat at the table, tugging on a scuffed shoe. “And if you use my laptop - wait, who am I kidding - when you use my laptop, don’t close out the spreadsheets. I’m doing some analysis tomorrow, and I don’t want to spend half the morning trying to find my place.”

Sherlock slumped into the chair next to John, consciously relaxing his muscles so as not to give away the depth of his dismay. “Thirty-seven Adepts have been killed since the broadcast. That’s 3.08 Adepts killed each day.”

“Did you do that in your head just now?”

“Clearly.”

“You’re a wonder, you know. Brilliant and humble.” John sighed as he laced up his other shoe. “I have an entire security team to protect me from Holy Peter’s thugs. You, however, are susceptible to the virus that’s killing hundreds of non-Adepts each day. Statistically speaking, you’re in a lot more danger than I am.”

“You’re missing the point.” John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock pretended he didn’t notice. “She should come here.”

Preparations complete, John ducked his head into the bathroom, hands smoothing over his hair. Satisfied with himself, he grabbed his keys off the table and pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s temple. “I would invite her over, if I thought for a second you would behave. I didn’t think I’d see Mal again. I don’t want to scare her off just yet. I need more mates.”

“You have Lestrade.” Sherlock twisted his head to follow John’s body to the door. “You have me.”

With one hand on the doorknob, John paused. Tension bunched the muscles of his neck. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s…that’s not enough right now.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to control his reaction, allowing his face to contort as it would. His reward came quickly as bright pinpricks of guilt broke through John’s placid exterior. Dark satisfaction rose up in Sherlock when John started to backpedal. “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…I hardly see Lestrade. It’s just you and me, together, all the time.”

“Go, then.”

“Sherlock.”

He slumped further in the chair, eyes trained resolutely on the epidemiology book on the table. “Is this about Marcelle? Are you punishing me? You said I could tell you when I was ready.”

“Are you ready?”

“Would you stay if I were?”

John shook his head, speaking softly. “I watched Mal get Collared. Moriarty made me watch, just before he…you know. And now she’s free and she’s back. Can’t you at least try to understand what that means?”

Sherlock held his silence. To speak would be too much like losing.

John left, but before he closed the door he extended a kindness Sherlock wasn’t sure he deserved. “I’ll be back.”

Sherlock let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

 

* * *

 

Twilight wind blew sharp and chill against John’s face, drying his skin. He licked his chapped lips and knocked firmly on Mal’s front door.

While he waited, John studied the street. He could see the four members of his security detail, one at either end of the block and two acting as John’s shadows, guarding his back. There were others on the security team, of course – at least six more, according to Marcelle – but they were hidden away on adjacent rooftops and in cars with tinted windows.

Other than his detail, however, there was not one person in sight. The virus was taking London in its grip, and no one was keen on contact with strangers. Even if Mycroft hadn’t declared a ban on public gatherings and instituted a curfew, John was sure the streets would still be empty.

Empty except for Holy Peter and his Followers, that is. They’d taken Mycroft’s edicts as evidence of his despotism rather than a public health measure, and the infection rate among Followers was disproportionately high as a result. Not that it seemed to be making any dent in their numbers; like a hydra, for every one of Holy Peter’s personal army who fell to the virus, two more appeared to take their place.

At the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door, John gave up his study and tried to look less tired than he felt.

“John Watson! The hero, in the flesh!” Mal looked the same as she always had, for the most part, with her light brown hair and round face. The only visible signs of her months in captivity were the scars that pulled the skin tight across her jaw and the abysmal sadness hiding behind her joyful smile. She ushered John inside before pulling him into a tight embrace.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She whispered the words into his ear with fervent sincerity, like a prayer. It made John uncomfortable to hear, reminded him of his parents, but he didn’t want to ruin the moment. He tightened his arms around her instead.

Mal squeezed him back, then pulled away. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah. I’m glad you’re back too.”

With a laugh and one final slap on the shoulder, Mal led John into her kitchen where two cold beers already sat on the counter. John took his gratefully. The place was small and sparsely furnished, the walls painted a bright, sterile white. There wasn’t a moving box in sight. The scent of artificial lemon hung in the air.

“So, Captain, I see you’ve moved up in the world. Your security people tore this place apart earlier, checking for bombs or whatever. It’s a good thing I own next to nothing, or it might have taken all day.”

John took his next sip of beer with a wince. “Yeah, sorry about that. It was the only way they’d let me come over here. Even with the sweeps, I had to do some fast talking to get Marcelle to let me come. She thought it might be too dangerous.”

Her smile tilted and slid off her face, leaving only the abysmal sadness behind. “No, no, John, I’m glad you’re being protected. One of the empaths I worked with in the Colonies, Mae…she was hanged by a mob of Holy Peter’s crazies the same day I got back. They threw her off the side of a bridge.” She grabbed John’s chin, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “I don’t know what I’d do if that happened to you, and other than Holmes, you’re the biggest Adept target there is. So stay safe, yeah?”

“Yes. Of course.”

She narrowed her eyes and held his gaze long enough for him to feel uncomfortable. Finally, she dropped her hand. “At least this Marcelle seems willing to get her hands dirty. What’s the story there?” One eyebrow arched, implying more than words ever could.

John shook his head, setting his beer down on the table. “Actually, her history is with Sherlock, although I’m not sure exactly what that history is yet. Mycroft assigned her to coordinate our security after the last Moriarty broadcast.”

“John.” Now both of Mal’s eyebrows were up, incredulous. “Are you talking about the Sherlock I think you’re talking about?”

“Um…yes?”

“And you’re back together?”

He nodded slowly, trying not to feel guilty. He knew how this looked from the outside. “He didn’t want me to come tonight either, if that makes you feel better.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “And you’re on a first name basis with Mycroft Holmes, the shadow king of the fucking Monarchy?”

“He’s Sherlock’s brother, actually. Sherlock is Sherlock Holmes.”

Mal stared at him blankly, the harsh light of her flat reflecting off the whites of her eyes. “The Aura save you. You’re not living if you’re not dying, you poor sod.”

She opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “Did I ever tell you about the time I got banned from Tesco? Well, funny story…”

To his immense relief, for the next couple hours, John forgot about the virus. He forgot about Holy Peter and Moriarty. He forgot about the war. He forgot about Sherlock. He laughed.

It felt nice to have a friend.


	7. Chapter 7

Right up until the day it failed, John’s security detail was flawless. As hostile as Marcelle had been that first day, she was also frighteningly competent. John was left with nothing to do but study and worry, two preoccupations that when practiced together did not make for a productive use of time.

When an attack finally broke through, it was a welcome relief.

John and Sherlock were eating dinner at the Thai Orchid, just a few minutes from their flat. The place was decent sized, with a small foyer opening into a larger room beyond. With the exception of two of guards, they were completely alone in the restaurant; both Marcelle and Sherlock had insisted the place be entirely cleared before they’d allow John to enter.

All of their precautions, however, did not stop three armour-clad Disciples from barreling through the Thai Orchid’s front window, shards of glass falling around them as they sprayed bullets into the restaurant proper.

John reacted with speed born from years in the military combined with months of painful, knife-edged readiness. He flipped their heavy wood table, dousing the thin, brown carpet in curry sauce, while at the same time pulling Sherlock behind the makeshift barricade.

To their credit, the guards that had been positioned inside the restaurant – it was Steve and Pedro tonight; Liz had the night off – returned fire immediately, laying down a pattern of suppressive fire designed to buy enough time for backup to arrive.

John cursed, flinching as a bullet shattered the plates on the table next to them. Time seemed to slow down, sound and smell both fading away as his brain concentrated on keeping him alive and Sherlock alive.

John grabbed Sherlock’s shirt to catch his attention. It wasn’t easy, since Sherlock had that intense look on his face that said he his brain was moving at light speed. He was probably trying to think of a way out this mess. They couldn’t stay behind the table in the midst of a shoot out, obviously. One lucky shot and they’d both be dead.

“I’m going to knock them out.” John motioned at his own chest, trying to make it clear that he was talking about the Aura. “Shake me if they get any closer.”

Sherlock studied him carefully for a few seconds before nodding curtly. “Fine.” With a graceful twist of his wrist, Sherlock reached underneath John’s shirt and pulled his Sig Sauer from its holster. “But I’m taking the gun. I’ll cover you.”

John fought down the flutter of panic he always felt when he saw a gun in Sherlock’s hand and closed his eyes. He concentrated, breathing in and out, in and out, letting go of the adrenaline and the fear until he was perfectly centered. Then he reached out and grabbed the Aura.

The Aura filled him up and he channeled it, directing a small tendril at the closest of the attackers, the one crouched behind his own overturned table about a quarter of the way into the restaurant. He took a moment to locate the correct bundle of nerves in the man’s brain and squeezed.

Nothing happened.

John grunted in frustration, slapping his palm against the floor. He shifted his focus to the next closest target, the man ducking out from behind the foyer entrance. Once again, John located the correct spot in the man’s brain and squeezed.

Once again, nothing happened.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” John put his fingers to his temples, struggling to sharpen his focus. This had happened before. The first time had been with Irene Adler, right around the time he’d met Sherlock. She’d been on top of Sherlock, strangling him, and the Aura hadn’t been able to touch her. If John hadn’t had his gun on him, Sherlock would have died.

The second time had been the day John was captured by Moriarty’s men. Karl hadn’t been able to feel the Collared waiting to ambush them on the hill. John’s team had been defenseless, and Karl had paid for their ignorance with his life.

John took one hand from his temple and slapped it against the floor again. The sting of the impact felt good, pure. “Moriarty.”

Sherlock glanced at him as he said Moriarty’s name, his eyes bright and focused. “If you’re going to do something, John, I suggest you do it now. There aren’t many bullets left in the clip.”

John closed his eyes, using the Aura to drain some of the adrenaline from his system. If he didn’t figure this out quickly, Sherlock was going to do something daft. Messing with the attackers’ guns was out of the question – he was no kinetic – and he couldn’t throw things at them either. As a medical Adept, his power only encompassed the body.

That was the rub. Whatever trick Moriarty had developed was keeping John out of the attackers’ bodies.

John swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. When he pulled his hand away, it was glistening with sweat. He moved to wipe the sweat off on his trousers, but froze half way through the motion.

Sweat. Sweat was a bodily secretion that was no longer in the body. Perhaps…

John directed the Aura back to the nearest attacker, but instead of reaching inside, he skimmed his power along the surface of the man’s body. Stress, adrenaline, and heavy body armour had done their work; the man was slick with sweat.

Carefully and quickly, John shrunk his presence down. The process was much easier than it had been the first time, when he’d tricked the Collar; months upon months of near constant practice had developed his skills well. When he was small enough, John began to add energy to the chemical compounds that, when taken together, became this man’s sweat.

As John added more energy, the molecules in the sweat began to move faster. The faster the molecules moved, the more energy they gave off. The more energy they gave off, the _hotter_ they became.

A terrible scream echoed through the Thai Orchid.

John smiled grimly and split the Aura he was holding two more ways. He directed the new flows of Aura at the remaining two attackers, pouring energy into the sweat covering their skin.

John waited until the shots from the front of the restaurant stopped before he let the Aura go.

“Steve? Pedro? It’s all clear.” John stood, eyeing the three attackers warily. Their skin was red and raw. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air, overpowering the spicy scent of the curry on the floor. “You can disarm and restrain.”

Sherlock stood up as Steve and Pedro made their way past the mess of the dining area to the front of the restaurant. He grabbed John around the wrist, propelling him to the presumed safety of the kitchen.

“John.” Sherlock breathed his name when they were finally alone in the kitchen. The room was hot, lit from above with harsh white light.

“I’m sorry it took so long to take them down.” John talked right over Sherlock, shuffling backwards. He looked at his reflection in the stainless steel countertop. His hair was so long now. “That thing that happened with Adler? And with the people who captured my team in the Colonies? It was happening with them too. It took me a second to find a way around it.”

“So you superheated their sweat, I take it?” John looked up in surprise at Sherlock’s tone. He’d expected Sherlock to sound angry or sarcastic or, at the very least, worried. Instead, Sherlock sounded amused. “If you can’t stand the heat…” He looked pointedly around the kitchen, one eyebrow raised.

John stared at Sherlock blankly, just for a moment. Sherlock had just made a pun.

Sherlock. Had just made. A _pun_.

A peal of laughter burst out of John’s throat, startling the both of them. Another came, and another, until John was laughing in earnest. Sherlock began to laugh as well, deep chuckles that shook his entire body.

“God, Sherlock, I thought you’d be...” John trailed off, still stifling laughter. “You’ve been going on about attacks on Adepts for months. I figured when it finally happened you’d be, er…less amused. I expected more of a fight.”

Sherlock set John’s Sig on the counter before answering. “You were brilliant today.” He cocked his head to the side, smirking. “We were brilliant together. I’ll have words with Marcelle later.”

John grinned back. It was true. He and Sherlock had always been at their best when they were under fire. “Yeah. We haven’t laughed like this in ages.”

“No. We’ve become quite adept at fighting, however.”

“Quite adept.”

John stared at Sherlock, and Sherlock stared back. In all the time since John had returned from the Colonies, this was the closest they’d come to acknowledging the rift that still existed between. It was the rift that neither John nor Sherlock had been able to close, no matter how well-intentioned either of them was.

“It’s a good sign, isn’t it?” John licked his lips, aware of the heaviness between them. He picked up his gun and tucked it back into its holster. “That we can admit the truth?”

Sherlock inclined his head, never taking his eyes from John’s.

Steve walked into the kitchen then, his brown hair askew. “We’re taking you back to your flat. The car is waiting out front.” He focused on John, his lips twitching up into a rare smile. “That was really something you did just now. Makes me wonder why you need guards at all.”

“Thanks.” John straightened his shirt over his holster, covering the strip of the skin that had been showing. “What about the Disciples?”

“You got them pretty good. Burns over most of their bodies. We’re taking them to Barts.”

John hummed in acknowledgement, brushing up against Sherlock’s side on his way out of the kitchen.

The ride back to the flat was quick and silent. Other than a call from Marcelle to arrange a meeting for the next morning, neither John nor Sherlock spoke.

John unlocked the front door and walked up the seventeen steps to 221B, Sherlock following him closely. When the door was closed firmly behind them, John peeled off to the kitchen and put the kettle on. After a moment of hesitation, he fished some of Sherlock’s chocolate biscuits from the cupboard too. Most of their dinner had ended up on the floor, after all.

John ate a few of the biscuits absentmindedly while he waited for the kettle. He brushed the crumbs from his shirt and wandered into the sitting room. Sherlock was standing in front of the fireplace, his back to the room. His shirt was untucked and stained with curry. His trousers had a hole in the back; they must have torn during the firefight.

“Do you know what it feels like?” Sherlock turned around, the warm light from the table lamp softening the sharp angles of his face. He was holding his skull, the one he kept on the mantle.

“Hmm?”

“Do you know how it feels to love you? I’ve been thinking about it. How I might test it or understand it. But any coherent elucidation of the subject eludes me.” Sherlock set the skull back down on the mantle, making minute adjustments to its position.

John said nothing, surprised by Sherlock for the second time in one night. Sherlock never talked about this. Not without a significant amount of prodding on John’s part. Sherlock was not one for vulnerability. Not one for sentiment, as Mycroft called it.

“I have a room in my mind palace. In that room is a box where I store my more burdensome emotions. At various points in time, I have tried to put my feelings for you in that box. They do not fit. The lid will not close on them.” Sherlock took two steps towards John, then stopped. “At times, when I look at you, I feel something invisible expanding in my chest. It pushes outwards until it feels too big for my body, until my skin feels too tight. It is distinctly unpleasant.”

John stepped closer to Sherlock. “You’re describing love.”

“Yes. I didn’t recognize it for what it was at first. It was overwhelming.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Sherlock looked John in the eyes as he began to unbutton his shirt. “I want you to know that the reason I’ve been acting the way I have is because I am afraid. Before I met you, I never would have admitted to that.”

The skin of Sherlock’s chest was pale and lovely, especially where it contrasted with the light smattering of dark hair over the top of it. John couldn’t take his off of Sherlock’s chest as Sherlock threw his shirt on the sofa. “Afraid of what?”

“That you’ll be caught be a mob and hung from a bridge. That you’ll be shot in the head and your brilliant brain will be splashed across some random wall or street corner. That I won’t be able to stop it.” He had his trousers off now, and his fingers were hooked into the waistband of his pants. “That you’ll give up. That you’ll never really forgive me.” Sherlock took a breath and pushed his pants to the floor. He stepped out of them. “I would do anything for you, John. Give up anything. Absolutely anything.”

Things had been so strained between them, so difficult, but this felt like a turning point. Sherlock was standing in front of him, hands open, completely naked.

The same feeling that Sherlock had just described began to build in John’s chest. The feeling expanded, filling up every bit of John’s body and then some. He felt like an overfilled balloon, tense and close to bursting.

Sherlock was right. Love was terrifying. Love was better than a battlefield.

John nodded, motioning Sherlock forward. He still had his Sig strapped to his side, but he doubted he would be wearing the holster much longer. Sherlock wasted no time. They were touching in the blink of an eye, and kissing in another.

John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s bare back. The smoothness of his skin was broken only by the occasional scar, earned from years of reckless living. John pushed forward, deepening the kiss, clutching Sherlock tighter.

When the need for air became too much, John pulled back. Sherlock was breathing hard, his eyes closed. John brushed the pad of his thumb against the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

"You taste like chocolate biscuits." Sherlock’s lips curled up into a pleased smile. He tugged at John's shirt, his long fingers twisting into the cotton. “I shouldn’t be the only one with no clothes on.”

“Oh, no.” John took Sherlock’s cock in his left hand and ran his fingers up and down the length of it. “Then you’d get to have all the fun.”

Sherlock laughed, free and easy. He threaded his fingers into John’s hair and pulled him in for another kiss. John reciprocated enthusiastically, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

Distantly, John heard the sound of the kettle screaming in the kitchen.

A moment later, a hot wall of light and sound erupted around John, seemingly from every direction at once. He felt himself flying through the air, the taste of blood in his mouth, before sliding into darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

When a high-end explosive detonates, the energy released from the explosion radiates outward in all directions at speeds between 3 and 9 kilometres per second. As the sphere of energy expands, the surrounding air molecules are compressed and accelerated into a supersonic blast wave. The overpressure only exists for a few milliseconds, but it is the primary cause of explosive injuries and property damage. The initial concussive force of the blast is then immediately followed by high velocity shock waves that impart more energy into whatever they’re passing through – be it a brick wall or vital organs – which, in turn, furthers the destruction caused by the blast wave.

All of this information was stored somewhere in Sherlock’s brain. None of it did him any good, however, as the force of the explosion caught him in its grip and catapulted him into the wall of the flat.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock first became aware of a high, electric whine ringing in his ears. It was incredibly annoying, and it was also the only thing he could hear. Tinnitus. When he opened his eyes to look for the John, the room shifted and morphed around him violently enough that they shut again of their own accord. Vertigo too, then. How inconvenient.

“John?” Sherlock knew he was calling John’s name, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. His chest felt tight and breathing was painful. He recalled that lung injuries were common after blasts. A fit of coughing interrupted him before he could continue. “John?”

Through carefully slitted eyes, Sherlock watched as John approached and crouched down beside him. His mouth was moving, but Sherlock couldn’t hear, couldn’t comprehend. John seemed to understand the problem, and reached out to touch Sherlock’s temples with gentle fingers. His eyes narrowed in concentration and a few seconds later, Sherlock could hear again. The vertigo vanished as well; John must have fixed whatever damage the blast had done to the delicate bones and tissues of his ear.

“Can you hear me now?”

“Yes. Are you hurt?” He wheezed the words out, barely able to speak past the pain in his chest.

“I’m ok. Medical Adept, remember?”

Reassured, Sherlock made to stand up, but John placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Wait a second. Blast injuries are usually internal. Let me check the rest of you.” John moved his hands to Sherlock’s chest and simply held them there while Sherlock took a few shallow breaths. “You have blast lung, Sherlock. No wonder you can barely breathe. Hold still.”

Sherlock decided it would be prudent to do as instructed and held still while John did his work. Eventually the tightness in his chest lessened and he could breathe deeply once more.

“I can’t fix your lungs entirely; the bruising is too severe. You won’t drown in your own fluids though, so that’s a plus.” John frowned and began to remove the bits of glass embedded in Sherlock’s chest. The crimson rivulets from the cuts had already stained his hands red when he’d held them to Sherlock’s chest. “You picked a shite time to be naked.”

With a little help from the wall, Sherlock dragged himself to his feet, brushing John’s hands away as he stood. What had just happened? “A car bomb, perhaps?” He mused aloud. He wanted to pace, to move, but the broken glass covering the floor made that impossible. Verbalizing his train of thought would have to do. “A large car bomb can generate upwards of 3 psi of overpressure and wind speeds of 45 metres per second. That would fit the pattern of damage, if it were parked across the street. Shattered windows and thrown furniture, but no apparent structural damage.”

There was no way to be sure though, not without seeing the scene of the explosion. Insufficient data. “I need to see the street.” He took a step towards the window, narrowly avoiding a sharp shard of what was formerly their sitting room window.

“Whoa, hey!” John stopped Sherlock again, stepping in front of him and splaying a hand across his chest. “There’s no way I’m letting you near a window, Sherlock. We’ve been attacked twice today already, and it’s pretty damn suspicious that our guards aren’t here yet.”

“John, it’s necessary-”

“Wait. For. Security.” John bit into the words like they were old leather. “After the things you just said, I’ll be damned if I let you get killed by some random sniper. I can’t…” He wrapped Sherlock in a loose embrace, careful of the bits of glass still stuck in his skin, and spoke his next words directly into Sherlock’s ear. “I think I understand how you’ve been feeling these past few months. Protective. I can’t you lose you, I just can’t.”

John’s actions brought Sherlock up short. Of course.

The memory of the immediate aftermath of the shootout at the restaurant snapped to the forefront of Sherlock’s mind. It had been him and John, together, surrounded by splintered wood and shattered ceramic. The smell of charred flesh was thick in the air, but John was steady, so steady. Sherlock was disdainful of nostalgia on principle, but, in that moment, the whole scene recalled their early acquaintance so clearly that Sherlock had nearly choked on the sentiment.

He’d wanted that back. He’d wanted the ease and the fun and the comfort, all the things that they’d had before he’d burnt everything to ash. Consequently, he’d done what he would have done in the past; he’d thrown out a clever bit of word play skewering the irrationality of the situation.

And John had laughed. He’d genuinely laughed, his belly shaking and his round cheeks flushed, and Sherlock had laughed with him.

Something eased in Sherlock’s chest as the laughter dissolved a portion of the unbearable tension that had been growing between them for months. It was also clear to him that one carefree moment would not be enough to make John stay. For that, Sherlock needed to do something grand. Something radical.

When the world was run by the likes of Mycroft and Moriarty, what was more radical than the truth? He’d stripped himself bare. John had started to do the same when the bomb had exploded.

Sherlock jerked as thoughts of naked John reminded him of his own unclothed state. At the same time, he heard the cars stopping and doors slamming on the street below.

Their security had arrived.

He pulled back from John far enough to look him in the eye. “I’m not wearing clothes.”

“Yeah, I see that.” John pursed his lips and picked another piece of glass out of Sherlock’s skin, this time from his shoulder. “Not that I’d usually complain, but like I said, shite timing.”

“No, John, pay attention. I don’t have any problems with nudity per se, but Marcelle and Lestrade just pulled up outside. I’d prefer not to give them a show.”

“Oh.” John’s eyes went wide and his eyebrows flew up. “Oh! Um…” He turned his head from side to side, casting about the room for some sort of cover.

“The blanket by the kitchen. Five seconds.”

Feet were pounding up the stairs now. John dashed past Sherlock, dodging overturned furniture to reach the blanket. He snatched it up and threw it at Sherlock just as Marcelle, Lestrade, and several other agents burst through the door, guns drawn.

Sherlock settled the filthy blanket around his shoulders, bits of debris falling to the floor all around him, and turned to face them.

Marcelle hesitated for a moment, her eyes pointed where Sherlock’s bare bum had been just a second before, but she recovered quickly. More quickly than Lestrade, certainly, whose mouth was hanging open in a particularly unattractive manner.

“Are you both ambulatory?” Marcelle pushed into the flat, kicking away the footstool Sherlock had bought John that first Christmas. It was ruined now, the wood cracked where it had knocked into another piece of furniture.

John stepped close to Sherlock again, adjusting the blanket to better cover Sherlock’s chest. “I checked us both and healed what I could. We’ll make it.”

“Great. You’ll wait here until the street is cleared, then down to the car, then to Barts, then to our secondary location.” She paused and holstered her gun. “Two attacks in one day.” She shook her head sadly, her ponytail swaying from side to side. “We got lucky on the first strike – that’s thanks to you, Watson; it’s a nice change having an Adept as a client – but we lost Paul on this one. He was on the street when the car bomb went off.”

Sherlock struggled not to look at John, sure that he would disapprove of the satisfaction Sherlock felt. John had been telling him since they’d met that _normal_ _people_ did not feel satisfaction after a murder, but how else was Sherlock supposed to feel when he was right? It _had_ been a car bomb.

That, however, meant the car had been parked on the other side of the street. Otherwise, 221B would have sustained far greater damage than it had.

“It wasn’t meant to kill us.” Sherlock mused out loud, feeling controlled enough to look at John.

Lestrade crunched forward, holstering his gun. “Excuse me?”

“The attack earlier was straightforward – soldiers with bullets who were aiming to kill. This attack was different. A car bomb parked _across_ the street? Why would the attacker do that if they wanted to kill us? They could have parked closer. They could have planted the bomb in the flat, for that matter.” Sherlock moved without thinking and grimaced when he stepped on another piece of glass. He snapped his head up and met John’s eyes. “The question-”

Before he could finish the sentence, a thunderous boom shook the walls of the flat.

Lestrade ducked and covered his head. “What the-”

Another boom reverberated through the flat. Through the open window, Sherlock could see thick, black smoke beginning to rise in the distance.

Muscle memory moved Sherlock’s hand to where his pocket would have been, had he been wearing trousers, but, of course, there was nothing to find. He glanced around the ruins of the flat, but his mobile was nowhere in sight. Fortunately, he kept spares in several locations around the city for just such an occasion. Until he could get his hands on one, he would have to rely on Marcelle for news. 

She was on her mobile already, nodding along with the person on the other end of the line. Lestrade caught her eye and raised his eyebrows, prompting her to lower the phone long enough to tell them what had happened.

“Birmingham Palace has been destroyed, as has Westminster. Holy Peter is claiming responsibility. His people are all over the city.”

“Well? What does that mean?” Lestrade bit his lower lip, unease twisting his face as he eyed the rising smoke outside.

John was the one who answered, his quiet voice as weary as Sherlock had ever heard it. “War. This means civil war.”

 

* * *

 

“I knew it! From the very beginning, Sherlock, I knew what was coming!” John threw one hand in the air and waved the other in Sherlock’s general direction. “No one took Holy Peter seriously. Not even you. And now he’s taken half of London!”

John had been like this since they’d left London, alternating between periods of heavy silence and furious tirades. Intellectually, Sherlock could understand why. Civil war was John’s worst fear come to life; almost all of the Monarchy’s troops, including the vast majority of Adepts, were engaged on foreign fronts. There was virtually no one left in England to fight back against Holy Peter.

Unfortunately, the journey out of London had only exacerbated John’s distress. Marcelle had arranged for them to go by helicopter, because all of the major roads out of the city had been clogged by panicked city dwellers attempting to flee the fighting. John had stared down at the masses of people, all of them coughing and sneezing and breathing each others’ air, and he’d squared his shoulders in despair.

“Look at them.” John’s voice had crackled over the headset Sherlock was wearing, his voice hard to catch over the roar of the helicopter. “This is going to make the plague a hundred times worse. They’ll be screaming for Moriarty if Mycroft doesn’t fix this.”

Moriarty was truly a genius. Sherlock was going to beat him if it was the last thing he ever did.

He looked up from his laptop and glanced around the room they’d been assigned. They were in a hotel – John would say a posh one, though Sherlock knew better – about thirty minutes southeast of London. The hotel was surrounded by a newly erected military staging area. Sherlock could hear the frantic preparations of the soldiers through the open window.

The room itself was well-sized, with a high ceiling and a windowed alcove set into the wall. Sherlock was situated at the room’s sturdy wooden desk with his laptop, back facing the window, while John turned circles around the bed.

“Do you ever wonder what it would have been like?”

The abrupt change in subject drew Sherlock’s eyes from the dark red pillows on the bed to John’s creased face. John hadn’t yet reached thirty-five, but the worry etched across his brow made him look a decade older. “What do you mean?”

“What it would have been like if he’d got to you first. Before me. What would you be like now?”

The strange question, asked with such nonchalance, had Sherlock narrowing his eyes. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I think about it sometimes. You and him, together.”

Unsure what John was after, Sherlock scowled. What did it matter? “Don’t waste your time with irrelevant hypotheticals. Or, more importantly, my time.”

 John licked his lips and pressed the flats of his hands together. “No. No, you’re right. We’re finally getting better and I’m messing it up. Ignore me.”

A firm knock on the door put an end to the confusing conversation. It was Pedro. He was their guard on duty, watching their door.

“There’s a messenger in the second floor conference room from Adept Holmes. His identification checks out. Says he needs to speak with Mr. Holmes.”

John nodded and made a move towards the door, gesturing for Sherlock to follow.

“Uh, he says he needs to speak with Mr. Holmes _alone_. He was very specific. Sorry.” Pedro looked over John’s shoulder to Sherlock. “He also said to remind you of your deal with Adept Holmes, and that now would not be a good time to cross him.”

John shook his head in disbelief, his eyes wide, as Sherlock put on his suit jacket. As distasteful as it was to concede to Mycroft’s demands, John was in too much danger to risk losing Mycroft’s protection.

“Don’t worry, John.” Sherlock brushed his fingers over John’s hand as he passed him. “I’ll take care of this.”

John caught Sherlock’s hand for a brief moment and squeezed.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock breezed into the conference room to find Mycroft’s messenger standing far too close to the door. The young man looked remarkably like Sherlock; he was tall and thin, with pale skin and dark hair. They were about the same age, although the messenger was wearing a stylish pair of thick-rimmed glasses.

Before Sherlock could so much as sneer, the man whipped his left hand up to jam a syringe into Sherlock’s neck and moved his left hand to press a gun into Sherlock’s stomach.

“Ah, ah, ah.” The man threw the empty syringe to the floor and used his now-free hand to put pressure on Sherlock’s trachea. He dug the gun into Sherlock’s solar plexus at the same time, a clear warning. “Don’t ruin the game now. Your security’s a joke, by the way. And look at you, not even armed. I thought Jim said you were smart.”

Satisfied that Sherlock wasn’t going to struggle, the man backed away quickly, pulling a note from his pocket. “Whatever. My employer has a message for you.” He balled up the paper and threw it at Sherlock.

The note was short and to the point:

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_It’s been a while, yes? Johnny is making you dull, so I decided to give you a gift._

_You were just injected with a rather concentrated dose of a certain deadly disease making the rounds these days. Since your pet has failed utterly at synthesising a cure, you now have two choices: meet my associate in front of your hotel in one hour and follow him to France (where I will be waiting eagerly, I assure you), or die a disgustingly ignoble death._

_Now, I call this a choice, but we both know what you’re going to do. When you get to France, the real fun will start._

_All my love,_

_Jim_

_P.S. Don’t tell Johnny. You’ve been warned._


	9. Chapter 9

The door opened with a soft click, drawing John’s attention away from Sherlock’s papers and to the man himself. He hit a button on his phone to bring up the clock. Ten minutes had passed, at most.

John looked back to Sherlock, trying to _observe._ When Sherlock had left he’d been annoyed, yes, but affectionate. His movements had been quick and precise. His face had held a scowl, but nothing beyond what any mention of his brother would have brought. Now, though. Now Sherlock’s movements too free, full of the easiness Sherlock affected when imitating _normal people_. His elastic face was completely blank, but not the vacant blankness that John associated with Sherlock's mind palace. Instead, this was a _present_ blankness, the kind that said _I’m here but I don’t want you to see me._

John pretended to straighten the papers while Sherlock took off his suit jacket. He didn’t like the direction the data was taking. His conclusion: something wrong, and Sherlock was trying to hide it from him.    

He set the papers back on the desk. The feeling of ants crawling beneath his skin, the one that he’d been trying to ignore since the bombs had exploded, intensified. He steeled himself, ready to have it out with Sherlock yet again.

Sherlock, of course, beat him to the punch. “John. We need to talk.”

Surprised, John blinked a few times before he nodded.

Sherlock inclined his head towards the bed and then stared at John expectantly. John ran his tongue along his bottom lip and complied. Sitting still was hard for him at the moment, but not impossible.

When he was seated, Sherlock began to pace. His long strides carried him from one end of the room to the other with more grace and speed than John had managed. After a couple trips back and forth, Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned to John. “You are aware of the tension that exists between Marcelle Amorim and myself.”

“Of course.”

“I’m ready to talk about it.”

Another surprise. This was Sherlock, through and through. “Oh.”

Sherlock resumed his pacing. “You know something of my past. You met Victor. Then you killed him, which was, of course, an entirely appropriate response to meeting him. You’ve talked to Lestrade and Mycroft. You know that I used to rely heavily on the use of various illegal narcotics, before I replaced that with the Work.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how bad it was?”

John hesitated. The specifics had never been outlined for him, but he had an idea. “I think so.”

Sherlock’s lips thinned. He tossed his head. “I snorted cocaine for the first time when I was fifteen. That was the year I finished with university and Mycroft finished at his Praxeum. It was also the year my mother died. I felt liberated at the time, but looking back, I realize that I was…lacking direction. A few years later, I encountered Victor. He introduced me to injection. He introduced me to heroin. He introduced me to many other addicts. Marcelle’s brother, for instance. João.”

Sherlock paused for a moment before continuing. “After living with me for so long, you’re intimately familiar with addicts. We lie, John. We manipulate. We steal. We haunt the places we live, sucking the life from everything around us. I sucked the life from João.”

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock stared at John for a moment before spinning around, leaving John to look at his back. “It was a game. Victor would continue to supply me with whatever chemicals I wanted, free of charge, if I could trick João into loving me. And if I could ruin João’s life, treat him like dirt, lead him deeper and deeper into addiction, and he still wanted me after…then I won the game.”

John looked at his own hands, clasped together in his lap. He’d expected something awful, considering Sherlock’s previous refusal to broach this subject, but hearing the details was still unpleasant. “Sherlock, that’s…”

“I know what it is.” Sherlock’s voice cracked like a whip. “I know what I was.” He turned again, his pale eyes burning with emotion that Sherlock rarely allowed to see the light of day. “Do not misunderstand me, John. I won that particular game, and many others. I proved every day that I was what everyone said I was: unfeeling, heartless, twisted. Inhuman.”

Sitting still was no longer an option. John rose to his feet. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “That’s not the man I know.”

“Isn’t it?”

John scoffed. “No. For God’s sake, Sherlock. Yes, you can be a right arse sometimes, and a bloody blind fool. But I’ve seen you at your absolute worst, and I still love you. If you’re inhuman, what does that make me?” How could Sherlock think he would judge him, after everything?

Sherlock stared at him.

John tilted his head to the side. “What exactly did Mycroft’s messenger say to you?”

“I have to leave.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are you going?”

“I can’t say.”

John tilted his head farther, stretching the muscles in his neck. Frustration and stress had tightened them to an uncomfortable degree. He tried to breathe. "Why not?"

"He'll know if I tell you. I have no doubt of that."

John rolled his eyes. "Why would Mycroft care if I know?"

A blank stare was Sherlock’s only response.

“Well, then.” John sat on the bed again, back stiff. He pressed his palms into his eyes, white light blooming across the backs of his eyelids. “I do appreciate you telling me. About your past with Marcelle. I wasn’t sure you ever would.”

Some of the fire left Sherlock’s eyes. He walked over and sunk down next to John. Sherlock’s left side was pressed against John’s right side – the long line of his thigh, the warm curve of his hip, the sharpness of his shoulder. “I was always going to tell you. I needed the proper motivation, is all. I didn’t want anything between us. Not now.”

They sat together in silence for a long minute. The sound of soldiers, so familiar to John, filtered up from the area below the window. For a second, the noises made him feel like he was back in the Colonies.

John turned to look at Sherlock’s face, but his attention was diverted by a dark smudge on Sherlock’s neck. Peering closer, he saw that the smudge was flaking. It looked like…dried blood? He turned his body and raised his hand to thumb at the spot, a frown on his face.

Sherlock’s hand shot up, intercepting John’s before it reached its destination. John’s eyes snapped up to meet Sherlock’s. “What-”

Sherlock closed the distance between them, cutting John off with a kiss. His lips had barely touched John’s, however, when he jerked back, eyes wide. His hand still circled John’s wrist.

“Ahh, John. I need you to confirm…” Sherlock grimaced, and his grip tightened. “No Adept has ever been infected, correct?”

John shook his head. He was confused, but that was nothing new. Sherlock’s brain worked so quickly. “Never.”

Sherlock grunted before catching John’s mouth in another kiss. There was nothing short or tentative about this one; Sherlock went all out, pressing hard. He let go of John’s wrist, but only to free himself to grip the sides of John’s face. As the minutes wore on, the kiss shifted and evolved until it became a prelude to something more.

John slid his hands up Sherlock’s chest and pushed, forcing Sherlock to break the kiss. “Don’t you have to leave soon?” His words were breathless and heated. He and Sherlock hadn’t had sex in weeks, and he’d missed it. He’d missed feeling this close. And Sherlock was right. There was nothing between them now. Sherlock wasn’t hiding anymore.

“I do.” Sherlock’s voice was low. His dark hair was tousled, falling across his forehead. “We have to make this quick, but I’m not leaving until I’ve had you one more time.” He started to take off his shirt, his hands making quick work of the buttons. “No one can make me.”

John lay back on the bed, and watched as Sherlock shrugged out of his dress shirt, his undershirt. He watched as Sherlock unlaced his shoes and kicked them off, his socks following close behind. He watched as Sherlock stripped off his tight trousers and then his pants.

The last time Sherlock had done this, the two of them had been blasted across their flat. He wondered what was going to happen this time.

When Sherlock had finished undressing himself and started tugging at the hem of John’s shirt, John finally found it within himself to respond to the last thing Sherlock had said. “No one can make you do anything.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into what might, on someone else’s face, have been a smile. “We both know that’s not quite true.”

John felt his forehead wrinkle. He opened his mouth to respond, but that’s when Sherlock finally managed to pull off John’s pants and wrap his lips around the head of John’s cock. The words on his tongue were washed away in a wave of pleasure.

Sherlock sucked and licked, one hand holding the base of John’s cock and the other stroking the inside of John’s thigh. John closed his eyes and let Sherlock give him this. It felt good. It felt so good.

When John was hard, so hard it hurt, Sherlock lifted his mouth with one last flourish of his tongue. John let out a heavy breath, his hands still twisted in the duvet.

He opened his eyes so he could watch as Sherlock walked across the room, naked, to retrieve their lube from his bag. Dear Lord, but Sherlock was beautiful. Painfully, unbelievably beautiful, with his long, lean limbs, his scars, his soft hair.

In that moment, John remembered the way that Sherlock explained how it felt to love. He’d said it felt like something invisible expanding in his chest. That the feeling pushed outwards until it felt too big for his body, until his skin felt too tight. Of course, he’d been right. That was exactly how John felt right now.

Then Sherlock was back and handing John the lube. He spoke as he climbed over John, arranging himself in the middle of the bed on his hands and knees. “I want you to prepare me. I’m ready. Be quick. I want you inside me as soon as possible.”

John’s breath caught. He closed his eyes briefly before popping the cap pouring the lube into his hand. Gathering a tendril of Aura, he did the same trick he’d done the first time he’d had sex with Sherlock. He excited the molecules in the thick liquid, warming the lube.

Who could have known that a bedroom trick would have led to the life he was living now?

When everything was ready, John ran his right hand down Sherlock’s back and over the curve of his arse, while running the index finger of his left hand around the rim of Sherlock’s entrance.  Sherlock shuddered under his hands.

He pushed one finger into Sherlock, moving it in and out, stretching. Sherlock’s head dropped down, his forehead pressing into the bed. John reached between Sherlock’s legs to stroke his cock and added a second finger.

By the time John was at three fingers, Sherlock’s hips were vibrating from impatience. Sherlock picked his head up and looked back at John. His eyes were glazed and half-closed, and sweat was beaded across the severe planes of his face. “If you don’t start now, John, I’m going to come like this. I don’t want to come like this.”

John smiled as he withdrew his fingers and wiped them on the duvet. He picked the bottle up and poured some lube on his own hard cock. He jacked himself a few times for good measure, his eyes on Sherlock’s face.

“I don’t want you to leave.” John said as he lined himself up with Sherlock. “I want to be with you. For the rest of my life, Sherlock, I swear.” Then, slowly, John started to push in to Sherlock. The tight heat felt incredible.

Sherlock gasped and lowered his head back to the bed. They rocked back and forth, finding their rhythm, finding each other. John spread his hands across Sherlock’s smooth hips. He would take this. He would take Sherlock exactly as he was, if this was what he got in return, this love. Sherlock would come back from whatever mission Mycroft was sending him on and they would do this all over again.

John would have time to convince Sherlock that he was well and truly forgiven.

John walked his hands up Sherlock’s back, pressing closer. He couldn’t go too far; he was shorter than Sherlock, after all, and not all that flexible, but he could wrap his arms around Sherlock’s chest and pull up. Sherlock groaned and took the hint, raising his upper body until they were both upright and on their knees, Sherlock’s back pressed to John’s chest.

John rocked into Sherlock, slowly, making it last. He grabbed Sherlock’s chin with one hand and angled his head, kissing down his neck. When his lips found the smudge he’d tried to touch earlier, he kissed the spot until Sherlock’s skin was red from friction rather than blood.

“I’m close.” John was whispering, his mouth next to Sherlock’s ear. “Are you?”

Sherlock nodded. “Finish it.”

John pulled out of Sherlock. If he was going to come, it was going to be face to face with Sherlock. He pulled on Sherlock’s shoulders, tugging him around until they were chest to chest. With an inarticulate noise, John took Sherlock’s cock in his hand. It was only a moment before Sherlock’s hand was on him as well. John leaned forward, rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, and stroked quickly.

John came first, forgetting to move his hand as he shuddered through his orgasm. Sherlock stroked him through it, one hand on John’s cock and the other on curled around the back of his neck. As soon as John had recovered sufficiently, he started on Sherlock again. It wasn’t long before Sherlock was coming too, his muscles stiffening under John’s body.

They knelt for a moment in each other’s arms, the sweat cooling on their bodies now that they were still. Sherlock spoke first, his cheek pressed against John’s mussed hair. “I love you, John. I truly love you.”

John laughed softly. “I know how you feel.”

Sherlock disentangled himself from John and looked down at their knees. “I’ll get the towel, yes?”

John arched an eyebrow. “If you’re going to be leaving, you should shower. I’ll clean this.” He pulled Sherlock in for a kiss. “You can make it up to me when you get back.”

Sherlock’s mouth thinned a little. He pushed on John’s chest until John fell back on the bed. “Let me do this for you.” He climbed off the bed and disappeared into the washroom.

Sherlock returned with a damp towel over one arm. He smiled at John and wiped off his lower half, cleaning him. When he was finished, he pushed at John again, obviously attempting to get John on his stomach.

John grumbled, but turned as Sherlock directed. “What now? I’m not as young as I used to be.” He crossed his arms in front of him and pillowed his head in the space they made.

He felt Sherlock’s heat on his back as Sherlock leaned over him. “I know.” Sherlock’s words were thick, and full of regret. “I’m sorry.”

Before he could lift his head, John felt a sting in his arse cheek. “What?” Almost instantly, his limbs felt heavy, too heavy to move. His vision started to blur.

Oh, God. Sherlock had drugged him. John struggled to keep his eyes open, but he couldn’t hold off the darkness gather at the edge of his vision. He slurred out one more word – _“Sherlock.”_ – before drifting away.    

 

* * *

 

Sherlock watched as John relaxed into sleep, the syringe hanging limp in his hand. “I’m sorry.” Words meant little, but they were all he had at the moment. He had preparations to make, preparations he had to make in this room, from his laptop, and he couldn’t make them if John were awake.

This way, he also didn’t have to say goodbye.

There was so much to do. At the very least, he had to alert someone to the fact that the hotel had been exposed to the virus.

He’d been exposed to the virus. The symptoms could begin to manifest within the next few hours, if the virus advanced at the usual rate. He knew how it started. A dull headache, chills, fatigue. Muscle aches.

Sherlock bent to retrieve his pants and trousers, feeling the ache that John’s presence had left in him. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think of any way around this. There was no time, no treatment. There was only one option now: if Moriarty wanted him, Moriarty would get him.

It was time to cut off the head of the snake.

Sherlock made his preparations as best he could, glancing occasionally at John. He’d covered him with a blanket, but he could still imagine what John had looked like as he’d trembled in Sherlock’s arms. John’s space in Sherlock’s mind palace was full of such images, but Sherlock was always greedy for more.

When his hour was up, Sherlock first went to John and kissed him for the last time. He stuffed all of his emotions – his fear, his rage, his helpless – down into his white oak box and locked it, then dropped the iron key into his pocket. He grabbed his greatcoat from the closet and swung it over his shoulders. Armour on, he swept out the door.

Moriarty was waiting for him. Sherlock was going to beat him if it was the last thing he did. 


	10. Chapter 10

John clawed his way to consciousness. The feeling was, unfortunately, a familiar one; how many times now has he struggled to wake from the depths of a drugged slumber? The thought was disheartening, and John spared a moment to be disappointed.

The disappointment was lost quickly in the twilight of his mind. His body felt heavy, his mind thick and dull. Until the sedative loosened its hold enough for John to access the Aura, there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could process.

That was probably for the best, all things considered. Because, well…Sherlock. Sherlock, who had circumvented John’s defenses by lowering his own. Sherlock, who had drugged John. Sherlock, who had not left until he’d had John one more time.

Except, Sherlock hadn’t meant one _more_ time _._ He’d meant one _last_ time.

John lay on the bed and concentrated on his breathing. In and out, in and out. He felt the Aura singing around him, stretched toward it, and ...there. He let it wash through him, burning the remaining sedative from his body. A detached part of his mind, the part that would always be a medical Adept, wondered idly what Sherlock had injected him with. Something fast acting, certainly.

A different part of John’s mind wondered why Sherlock carried a drug like that around with him.

As John’s thoughts cleared, an awareness of his situation had his pulse and respiratory rate accelerating. He was lying on a bed in a strange place, naked, helpless. John struggled to roll off the bed as memories of his imprisonment in Moriarty’s compound began to surface. Desperate, John flung himself to the side and fell in heap on soft carpet.

This happened occasionally. Sometimes John would hear something that sounded like Moriarty’s laugh or Sherlock would say something vaguely reminiscent of Moriarty’s insane ramblings, and John would feel a panic attack on the horizon. They usually weren’t as intense as the one he’d had after Moriarty’s post-King address, but that was because he’d become better at controlling them.

John scrambled to his feet and stumbled to the window. He pressed his forehead against the glass and tried to ground himself. _My name is John Hamish Watson. I live at 221B Baker Street. I am safe. My name is John Hamish Watson. I live at 221B Baker Street. I am safe. My name is John Hamish Watson. I live at 221B Baker Street. I am safe._

He repeated his mantra over and over until the ugly memories retreated somewhat. They still threatened however, so John continued with his grounding. He touched the window with the pads of his fingers. _I am touching the window_. He reached over and let his fingers brush against the curtain. _I am touching the curtain_. He turned around and let his fingers curl around the top of the desk chair. _I am touching the chair._

John kept his eyes open, breathing deeply as his heart slowed. Thank God he’d been able to dodge this one. He didn’t have the time.

He took one last breath and grabbed his phone from the desk. He didn’t bother ringing Sherlock; that would be a waste of time, he was sure. Sherlock hardly answered in the best of times, and these were far from the best of times. Instead, he scrolled through his contacts until he found Mycroft and stabbed his finger down.

Mycroft answered after the first ring. His voice was more clipped than usual. John took a vindictive pleasure from the evidence of Mycroft’s strain, even if it had taken a civil war to produce it. “Adept Watson. I’m quite busy-”

John cut in before Mycroft could gain any more momentum. “Where did you send Sherlock?”

A beat of silence. “I’m sorry?”

“Sherlock. Where is he going?” As John spoke, he pulled on the clothes Sherlock had stripped from him earlier. He sandwiched the phone between his ear and shoulder while he pulled on his pants and trousers, then switched it from hand to hand while he shimmied into his shirt. Sherlock had a – John turned his phone around to check the time – two hour head start, give or take.

“John, you’re mistaken. I’ve not sent my brother anywhere.”

John scowled and shoved his feet into his shoes. “You should think very carefully about what you say next, Mycroft. Sherlock met with your messenger, came back ten minutes later acting even more cryptic than usual, and then drugged me and disappeared. I got the distinct impression he didn’t expect to come back. Tell me where you’ve sent him.”

“I can’t.”

“I swear to God, Mycroft-”

“No, John.” John was half way to the hotel room door, but the firmness of Mycroft’s voice was enough to make him pause. Or maybe not the firmness. Maybe it was the current of uncertainty running beneath the firmness. “I can’t tell you where he is because I honestly do not know. I did not send a messenger either.”

Before John could reply, a curt knock sounded at the door. The moisture in John’s mouth evaporated. “Hold on.”

He wrenched open the door to find Pedro’s worried face. His mobile was still in his hand.

“Pedro. What is it?”

Pedro shifted his weight, running his hand over the gun at his hip. “I’ve just been informed, sir. The hotel’s been quarantined.”

John wanted to punch the wall. “What do you mean _the hotel’s been quarantined_?”

“Just that, sir. There’s evidence that someone in the hotel was infected with the plague. We’re on lockdown for the next seventy-two hours. The powers that be want to limit the plague’s spread.”

Three days. He wasn’t allowed to leave the hotel for three days. Because someone infected with the plague had been in the hotel. Had that been part of Sherlock’s plan, to keep John from going after him?

John mumbled a thank you and shut the door. He stumbled as he remembered something else Sherlock had said to him, just before they’d had sex: _I need you to confirm…no Adept has ever been infected, correct?_

A mysterious messenger. Strange behavior. An abrupt departure. A quarantine. It didn’t take Sherlock to put the clues together.

Oh, God. No.

John brought the phone back to his ear. “Mycroft? Are you there?” His voice sounded distant, hollow in his own ears.

“Of course.”

“I need you to get me to France.”

John could almost feel Mycroft’s overwhelming presence over the phone. “I assume that’s where my brother has run off to.”

If only that were the case. “No. It’s where he’s been _taken_.” John took a deep breath. “Mycroft. Moriarty has Sherlock.”

Mycroft was silent for more than a beat this time. John had wondered what it would take to render the great Mycroft Holmes – _the shadow king of the fucking Monarchy,_ as Mal had so eloquently put it – speechless. Now he had his answer. Even shadows had their weaknesses.  

Finally, Mycroft found his voice. It was cold as ever. “Did I hear correctly that you are under quarantine?”

“Yes.”

“Leave that to me. A car will be waiting for you at the front entrance in ten minutes.”

John flung open his door and marched down the corridor. Pedro followed behind, hands steady. If he was confused, he didn’t show it. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Only that I have received reports of increased military activity along France’s northern border, as well as indications that Holy Peter’s followers are preparing to move in our southern coastal cities.”

“So they’re ready for me?”

“It would appear so.” Mycroft coughed dryly. “I must go, John. The world waits for no man. Not even me.”

“I’ll be in touch.” John ended the call and slipped the mobile into his pocket. He looked back at Pedro. “Did you hear that?”

Pedro nodded. “You’re leaving.”

“Yes.” John slowed, drawing even with Pedro. “But you’re not.”

Pedro hesitated and nodded again. His dark eyes met John’s. “Because I might be sick.” It didn’t take an empathic Adept to know that Pedro was scared. What a way to die.

John ran his tongue over his bottom lip. He stopped to lay a hand on Pedro’s forearm and squeezed briefly. “I need you to get in touch with Marcelle. Tell her what’s happening.”

“Okay.”

John looked at the ceiling, then at Pedro. He sighed. Now that he knew the whole history between her and Sherlock, he didn’t know how he felt about working with her. Or, for that case, how he felt about working with Mycroft, who had thrown Marcelle and Sherlock together again. It was always power and control with him. “And tell her I’m sorry. Sherlock and I…we’re both sorry.”

John waited for Pedro to acknowledge the request before continuing his march downstairs. He felt himself slipping back into proper military posture, back straight and shoulders squared. This situation called for a soldier, and John was a man with a mission.

 

* * *

 

A strong pair of hands shoved Sherlock’s shoulders from behind, sending him sprawling across wet gravel. The fall from the car was not a long one, but it was abrupt; the air rushed from Sherlock’s lungs and left him wheezing.

The man who looked like him – he’d said to call him Risley – clambered out of the car behind Sherlock. His well-polished shoes crunched over the gravel unit they stopped in front of Sherlock’s face.

“Oh, come on. Get up.” Sherlock snorted. If Risley hadn’t wanted Sherlock on the ground, he wouldn’t have pushed him out of the car. He was absolutely loathsome. “Jim’s waiting.”

Sherlock gathered his arms beneath him and pushed up. Jagged rock edges dug into the skin of his palms. “Charming. Have you, perhaps, noticed a certain resemblance between us?”

Risley tapped Sherlock’s shin with his shoe, ignoring the question. “Is this the fastest you can move?”

Sherlock finally reached his feet, and continued like Risley hadn’t spoken. “I couldn’t help but notice the similarities. The height, the hair, the skin. The exquisitely defined cheekbones, if I do say so myself.” He offered Risley his most insincere smile. “Do you believe in coincidence?”

Risley pressed his lips together, his nose wrinkling. “Do you ever stop talking? It’s been six hours and you’ve yet to shut your mouth.”

Sherlock smiled wider. John always said he looked crazed when he smiled like that. Perfect. “Because I don’t believe in coincidence. I do, however, believe that Moriarty fucks you and pretends it’s me. What do you think he’ll do with you now that he has the real thing?”

Risley’s mouth dropped open.

Sherlock brushed the grit from his hands, his trousers, his sleeves. Then he let the smile drop from his face. Risley’s stupid mouth closed with a snap. “Come on, Risley. Jim is waiting.”

Without another word, Risley turned on his heel and stalked up the drive toward the obscenely grand 18th century mansion that Moriarty was currently using as his headquarters. From the color and texture of the mud, he knew that they were somewhere in the French countryside, close to Paris.

Sherlock followed, his confidence partially restored. He breathed in the cool, wet air, and used the resulting clarity to push John into his mind palace. Whatever game Moriarty was playing, Sherlock was going to need the entirety of his focus.

Focus, unfortunately, was elusive. He wasn’t ready. He’d been thinking about this confrontation for years, but he’d always planned it on his terms. Moriarty had sped up the timeline though; Sherlock had two more hours, at most, before his symptoms began to present. At that point, any chance he had of besting Moriarty would be lost.

He made  it up the drive and walked through the heavy, carved doors into an enormous, circular entrance hall. Concentric rings of white and grey radiated out from the center of the room. An ornately carved fireplace sat in alcove across from the door, along with several pure white sculptors of naked men holding weapons. Crystal chandeliers large enough to hold several medium-sized children dotted the ceiling. Two wide staircases slithered up the walls and gathered together to form a railed landing on the second floor.

Everything about the entrance hall was gaudy, expensive, and over the top. And standing on the landing, leaning over the railing, was the king of the castle: James Moriarty. Emperor. Peer. Rapist.

He was dressed casually, much more so than Sherlock, in a simple pair of black trousers and a thin white cotton shirt. He was barefoot.

He looked ecstatic.

“Sherlock!” Moriarty leaned farther over the railing, his stomach pressed against the marble. He waved enthusiastically, like this was a reunion with an old friend. “How sweet of you to come. I hope the journey wasn’t too much trouble. I’ve heard disturbing things are happening to anyone trying to cross the Channel.” He gestured for Sherlock to ascend to his level.

Wary, Sherlock narrowed his eyes but began to climb. Risley made to follow him, but Moriarty put a stop to that immediately. “You.” Moriarty pointed at Risley. When Risley noticed, he pointed to his own chest. Amateur. “Yes, you. Scram. The grown-ups are talking.”

Risley glowered at Sherlock, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow in return. He had told him. Risley snarled, but did as instructed. No one dared crossed Moriarty. Sherlock resumed his climb.

“Finally.” Moriarty met Sherlock at the top of the stairs. The top of his head only reached as high as Sherlock’s chin, but he seemed taller. He raised his hands to fiddle with the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time, you know. I can’t believe we’ve never met in person. I feel like we’ve known each other for years.”

To punctuate that thought, Moriarty rose onto his toes and exhaled gently on Sherlock’s ear. They were close. Close like lovers.

Sherlock gathered his disgust and fear together, and threw them into a dark corner of his mind palace. He had known since John’s imprisonment that this was a possibility. This was part of the game.

Moriarty exhaled again, softly. “I can’t wait to play with you.” Then he kissed the sensitive skin directly in front of Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock couldn’t help himself; he shoved Moriarty away, sending the madman skittering back on bare soles.

“ _Yes_!” Moriarty crowed triumphantly, a reptilian grin splitting his delicate face. He was a few yards from Sherlock now, and a little hunched from his attempt to regain his balance. “That’s what I’m talking about. Our give and take! Of course, I do plan on doing most of the taking during our time together. Giving is so _dull_.” He licked his lips. “You taste like death, by the way. Totally hot.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to rub at his ear. “What do you want?”

“Girls just want to have fun, Sherlock. You should know that.” Moriarty punctuated the last word with an exaggerated shake of his hips.

Sherlock felt his jaw tighten. “You want to hurt me then? Destroy me?”

That, at least, made the smile drop off Moriarty’s face. The amusement in his black eyes was replaced with a satisfying mixture of disappointment and resentment. “No. Oh, no, Sherlock. You’re supposed to be the smart one. You’re supposed to get it.”

“Humour me.”

Moriarty sighed dramatically. “I’m not going to destroy you. You’re going to destroy yourself. And after you’ve buried your own heart in the ground, well…I’ll be free to pick it up, won’t I? Hang it on a chain, wear it around my neck?”

“That’s…” Images of John flooded Sherlock’s brain. He never would stay locked in the mind palace. “You seem sure of your victory. Isn’t that boring?”

“Maybe.” Moriarty shrugged and reached into his pocket. “Why don’t we kick things off with a round of Would You Rather? It’s okay, I’ll make the first one easy. Would you rather refuse treatment for the deadly virus swimming through your veins-” he pulled a syringe from his pocket “-or make a televised statement that John Watson is responsible for said deadly virus and you, as a concerned citizen of the world, have decided to defect. You have fifteen seconds.”

Sherlock spun to the side. He couldn’t think and watch Moriarty at the same time. “Ten seconds, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tried to ignore Moriarty and envision the paths the two choices might take. On the one hand, a statement like that would be a terrible blow to Mycroft’s war effort. More importantly, it would make John even more of a target than he already was. And people would never forget, even if it was disproven. On the other hand, if Sherlock didn’t take the treatment, there was a good chance he would die. If he died, he wouldn’t be able to help John at all. He would lose to Moriarty, and the game would be over.

Sherlock shook his head ruefully. Moriarty was right. This was an easy one.

He turned back to Moriarty and stripped off his jacket. “The treatment, please.” He undid the cuffs on his shirt as he spoke.

Moriarty pulled the cap off the syringe with his teeth and spit it on the floor. He walked up to Sherlock, an approving grin on his face. “See? We’re having fun already.”

When Moriarty was close enough, Sherlock plucked the syringe from his hand. “I can inject myself. I’m quite familiar with needles.”

Moriarty stared at him for a moment, eyes wide and liquid. Then he tilted his head back and laughed. It wasn’t the girlish giggle he usually excreted either, but a rich, full laugh. A real laugh. “Oh, Sherlock.” He laid his hands low on Sherlock’s belly while Sherlock injected the contents of the syringe into his own arm. “Beautiful. Just beautiful. I can’t wait until you see what I have planned next.” 


	11. Chapter 11

Moriarty made Sherlock deliver the broadcast script seventeen times.

Seventeen. Times.

For the first ten run-throughs, Moriarty spent his time giving Sherlock direction. First he pulled a chair up behind the camera, flipped it around, and straddled it. Then he made suggestions that weren't suggestions at all, his chin resting on the back of the chair.

_Enunciate, Sherlock._

_Slow down during the bit about becoming my personal advisor. Give it some drama._

_Where’s that classic Sherlockian vitriol? Make me believe you think Johnny is scum._

After the tenth time, Moriarty had finally clapped his hands together. “Perfect. Just perfect.” The back two legs of the chair lifted off the ground as Moriarty tipped forward. He pushed a couple buttons on the camera and grinned at Sherlock. “Now you’re ready for the big time. Again.”

Sherlock glared at Moriarty, but started again. If he didn’t, there was a good chance the bulky man near the door – Sebastian Moran, the one who’d nearly beaten John to death – would shoot him, and Sherlock couldn’t defeat Moriarty as a dead man. So Sherlock read the hateful words again and again, until he had them memorized, until they were branded in smoking red letters against the doors of his mind palace.

He sincerely hoped he would be able to delete them later.

After the seventeenth take, Moriarty had finally stopped him. “I think we have it. I had fun, Sherlock. Wasn’t that fun?”

Sherlock leaned back, hands crossed in his lap. He was seated behind the same dark red mahogany desk that Moriarty had used in his last broadcast. The desk was in a small, ornate office on the second floor of Moriarty’s mansion. The office’s windows overlooked a well-maintained garden, complete with hedge maze.

No surprise there. You didn’t need Sherlock’s intellect or powers of observation to deduce that Jim Moriarty was exactly the kind of person who would keep a hedge maze.

“Yes. Cracking good fun.” Sarcasm was a weak response, but Sherlock had few tools at the moment. “What next?”

Moriarty rose gracefully from his chair. He bounced toward Sherlock before perching on the edge of the mahogany desk. “Now we wait. It won’t be too long though. Not if I know Johnny.” He wiggled his eyebrows up and down, a suggestive shadow in his eyes. His voice dropped low. “And I really think I do.”

Sherlock couldn’t keep his lips from twitching into a snarl. The futility of the gesture made Moriarty laugh. “So territorial! But it’s alright. I forgive you, Sherlock.” Moriarty hoisted himself onto the desk and slid over the top so his legs dangled to either side of Sherlock’s. “And I’ll prove to you that we make more sense than you and Johnny ever did.”

It was a point of pride that Sherlock did not flinch away from Moriarty, even when he felt Moriarty’s bare foot rubbing against the side of side of his calf. Instead, Sherlock plastered a disdainful smirk on his face. “You’re welcome to try, Moriarty.”

Moriarty’s foot moved to the inside of Sherlock’s calf. “Please. Call me Jim.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Moriarty’s hand shot out, grasping Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock had nowhere to look but at Moriarty’s suddenly furious black eyes. “Say my name. Now. If you don’t, I could always make your stay here more…uncomfortable.”

Sherlock considered his options. At this point, small scale resistance was pointless. This was a long con. He let the name tumble from his lips. “Jim.”

“Good.” Moriarty’s hot breath washed across Sherlock’s face. It smelled like mint. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes for another few seconds before withdrawing his hand. “I have some business to take care of. You’ll stay here with Seb. And just in case…”

Moriarty opened the top drawer on the left side of the desk and took out two zip ties. “Arms on the armrests, dear.”

Sherlock did as requested. Moriarty hopped down from the desk, and tightened one zip tie around each of Sherlock’s wrists and the armrest beneath them.

“You look good like that.” Moriarty ran his hands up Sherlock’s arms, the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt bunching beneath his palms. Sherlock shuddered under his touch. “I’m so glad you’re finally here, Sherlock. You led me on a merry chase, and that was fun, but I mean, seriously. What good is it being the King if you don’t get everything you want?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Why what?” Moriarty looked up curiously.

“Why do you want me? You know I despise you.”

“That’s only half true.” Moriarty smiled indulgently. “I fascinate you. Even Johnny knows it, because he knows that I’m the only person in the world on your level. The only person without magical powers, that is. Your brother is such a cheat.” He straightened and walked to the other side of the desk. “We could have fun together, Sherlock. Push each other, challenge each other. All you have to do is leave all those _average_ people behind. Wait a few hours and I’ll show you how easy it is.” He wiggled his fingers at Sherlock. “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”

Sherlock watched warily as Moriarty swayed out the door.

 

* * *

 

John shut the laptop and slid it slowly toward Greg. They were sat together in the back of a standard issue armoured SUV. They were headed toward the coast, to a launch site close to Dover, the beginning of John’s mission to France. His mission to retrieve Sherlock from the clutches of the only man in the world Sherlock was actually afraid of.

That is exactly what made the video John had just watched so upsetting. He’d missed the initial broadcast – and thank God for that, because John would rather get redeployed to the Colonies than watch that video for the first time in front of an audience. Seeing Sherlock denounce him on a laptop screen was bad enough.

Greg accepted the laptop, but kept his eyes on John’s face. He tilted his head forward slightly, making it clear that he was waiting for John’s reaction to the video.

John held one hand to his forehead. His hand was uncomfortably cold. “What do you want me to say, Greg?”

“I don’t know. One of the people you love most just told the world that you are, and I quote, ‘ _the vilest mass murderer in the history of mankind_.’” Worry whorled and churned in the depths of Greg’s gaze. It was mirrored in the tentative way his hand stretched toward John before pulling back. “That has to be a punch to the gut.”

“Moriarty forced him to say that.”

“He still drugged you and left you. You still had to hear him say it. Damn, what a mess.” Greg thumped his head against the black leather seat a few times. The unassuming action made John feel a rush of affection. Greg could be challenging, but he always had John’s best interests at heart. He was a real friend.

Greg thumped his head one last time and turned to John. “All feelings aside, in practical terms this is bad. No offense John, but loads of people are starting to hate you.”

That made John smile in spite of the situation. “Do you think I’m less popular than Sherlock now? The world is upside down.”

“I’m not joking. What do you think is going to happen when we get to Dover? Half the city is under Holy Peter’s control and the other half is dying of plague. They’ll all be hunting you, John. If you would let us launch the transport from one of the bases-”

“No.” John imagined injected as much steel into his voice as he could manage. He needed Greg to take his lead on this. “Taking a transport from Dover is dangerous. I understand that. But it’s also the fastest way to get to Sherlock. I’m not wasting any more time. God knows what that madman has planned.”

Greg’s mouth twisted, but he didn’t protest further.

John let his tone soften. “And what about you? I’ve been exposed, Greg. Heavily exposed. You’re in danger just being near me.”

Greg’s face smoothed into a dry grimace. “Bit late for that, isn’t it, mate?”

John looked at Greg for a moment, and then reached for the canvas bag he’d set beneath his feet. He hauled it into his lap before unzipping the top in one smooth motion. Inside were several different types of firearms, all provided by Mycroft.

“Yeah.” John pulled a semi-automatic pistol out of the bag and had held it out to Greg. “A bit.”

 

* * *

 

It took longer than John expected for him and Greg to reach the docks. Mycroft and Greg had both spoken of Holy Peter’s increased presence in the southern coastal cities, but neither of them had known the scope of the problem. You couldn’t throw a rock in Dover without hitting one of Holy Peter’s followers, their white armbands making them stand out amongst the regular inhabitants of the city.

To make matters worse, Greg had been absolutely correct about Sherlock’s announcement. Several times already, John had been spotted by people without armbands only to be greeted with cries of _traitor_ and _murderer_. The last time that had happened, John and Greg had to travel a mile in the opposite direction of the docks just to escape the mob. John wished he could he knock them out with the Aura and move on, but there were simply too many. Evasion was their only option.

John hated it. For the first time in a long time, John wished that he had more raw strength with the Aura. He knew medical Adepts who had the power to stun whole crowds, while John could only manage a few at a time. Even a strong projectionist like Mal would probably be able to sneak John and Greg to the docks undetected.

Scalpels were effective against a Collar, but less so against streets full of terrified people.

Eventually, they made it to the docks. The docks were still under Monarchy control, but barely. The soldiers there were running out of supplies. They wouldn’t be able to hold out against Holy Peter’s followers much longer.

As long as they could hold the docks long enough for John to launch a transport to France, he didn’t much care.

At John’s request, they were led directly to the commanding officer in charge, a Lieutenant Rogers. Greg walked beside John, glancing uneasily from side to side.

“Is it just me, or are we getting some weird looks?” Greg spoke softly, just loud enough for John to hear him. He sounded nervous.

“Ignore it.” John kept his voice low in turn. He had noticed the stares, but they were the least of his worries. “Stay focused. I want to be gone in thirty minutes.”

Greg grunted in response.

They reached Rogers quickly. He stood just in front of the steep metal ramp that led down to the floating wood of the docks below. His helmet was tucked under his left arm, leaving his dark hair standing in spikes across his scalp. His uniform was too big for him, like he’d recently lost weight.

“Lieutenant Rogers.” John brought his hand up in a salute.

Rogers hesitated a moment before saluting back. “John Watson. A Monarchy liaison radioed ahead, told us to expect you. And you’re Lestrade, I take it?” Rogers nodded at Greg, who reached out to shake Rogers’ hand. “It’s just the two of you, then? No other Adepts?”

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Greg frown and pull back. For his part, John nodded and fought down his impatience. “Is everything ready? I’d like to leave as soon as possible.” All he could think about was getting to Sherlock.

“Yes, the transport is ready. I just need your input on some of the hardware, and then we’ll get you on your way.” Rogers’ words were friendly enough, but the way he said them was cold. “This way, please.”

Rogers turned toward a large warehouse-looking building and set off at a brisk pace. John followed at the same pace, though he slowed when Greg laid a hand on his forearm.

“I have a bad feeling about this.” Greg’s trepidation swirled through the air. It made the hair on John’s arms prickle. “Something is wrong here.”

John shook his head and kept walking. This late in the game, the only way through was forward.

John entered the warehouse first, with Greg following close behind. The interior was cool and smelled like mold. It was also dark as pitch, only illuminated by the light coming through the open door. John held out his arm to keep Greg from walking any farther.

“Rogers?”

Then the door slammed shut behind them, plunging the warehouse into complete darkness.

John dropped to the ground immediately and rolled to the side, but he couldn’t escape the ten or so red dots that appeared on his chest, centered directly over his heart. Another cluster of red dots appeared close by. That would be Greg.

“Don’t move.” The unfamiliar voice rang through the darkness. The sound echoed around the inside of the warehouse, coming from all directions at once. John obeyed but reached for the Aura. He wasn’t sure what he could do against twenty-odd assailants, but holding the Aura felt better than doing nothing.

The sharp voice spoke again. “Remove your weapons – slowly! – slide them forward on the ground. If you try anything, we’ll shoot you where you stand. Don’t think we can’t see everything you’re doing.”

John pulled his two guns from their holsters with exaggerated slowness and slid them across the floor. Ah, Sherlock. When he found out about this, he would never let John live it down.

“Fingers laced together, hands behind your head.”

John did as directed. He could hear Greg doing the same beside him. Sherlock was always dismissive of Greg, but the man was a good detective. He’d seen this coming at least, while John had been too wrapped up in his own worries to pay attention. A costly mistake.

A person approached through the eerie black, causing John’s muscles to tense involuntary. The next thing he felt were hands running over his chest, his hips, up his legs to his groin. A basic pat down. When the hands finished searching, one grabbed John by the back of the neck and the other poked the barrel of a gun into the small of his back. He could kill the person holding him with the Aura in a heartbeat, but the red dots were still there, still darting across his chest.

Then the lights came on.

John flinched away from the brightness. He blinked rapidly, desperate to gauge his surroundings.

A man began to materialize in the middle of the warehouse, directly in front of John. The man was average height. Dark hair. Dark eyes, almost black. His mouth was wide, wide enough to make him look a little strange. He was wearing a tailored suit of pure white. Even the shoes were white; they shone like snow in the early morning sun. 

And in the man’s hand was staff. A red oak staff with a little cross carved into the top.

Oh, no.

“I have to say, I expected more from you, John Watson. John _wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing_ Watson.” The man in white shook his head in disappointment. “I’d hoped the devil Mycroft Holmes would be with you. Ah, well. One must be thankful for what one has. The road of righteousness is long.”

Rogers was standing next to the man in white, his rifle trained at John. Although John shouldn’t call him Rogers, should he? The real Rogers was probably dead.

The man in white smiled hugely at John’s silence. “Oh, that’s right. We haven’t been properly introduced. Holy Peter, humble prophet of the light.” The man in white – Holy Peter – lifted his staff in a mocking salute. “I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you.”

John let his eyes fall closed, just for a second. It couldn’t end like this. It couldn’t. Not when Sherlock needed him.

“You see the mark on the ground, _wolf_? The one just there?” Holy Peter swung his staff at a piece of black tape stuck to the floor near the center of the warehouse. “Stand on the mark. We need to get this started.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open when he heard Moriarty waltz back into the office, three hours and twenty-seven minutes from when he’d tied Sherlock’s wrists to the chair. Moriarty had changed into a dove grey suit in the intervening time, and he held an open laptop in his hands. He looked positively giddy.

Sherlock’s stomach sank into the floor.

“Sorry to keep you so long, Sherlock. Johnny took longer than I anticipated. A constant disappointment, that one.” Moriarty marched to the desk and set the laptop down, then twirled it so Sherlock could see the screen. “But he did get there eventually.”

On the screen was John. He looked terrible and wonderful all at once. Terrible because he was covered in sweat and grime, and his face was flecked with dried blood that Sherlock hoped wasn’t his. Wonderful because he was John.

And terrible again because there were ten laser sights pointed straight at his heart. According to the transitive property, that meant the rifles were pointed at Sherlock’s heart as well.

Moriarty waited for Sherlock to look up before waving his hand at Sebastian. Sebastian slipped from the room. “Before you can shed the albatross of your former life, you need to acknowledge your true place in the world. So here’s the game.”

Sebastian came back into the office dragging a woman behind him. She was young and very pretty. Tears ran from her bloodshot eyes to her pointed chin, and then dripped onto her cashmere sweater. Sebastian threw her to the floor and trained his gun on her.

“This is Caroline. She’s kind. Compassionate. Fair. _Ordinary_.” Moriarty nudged her with his shoe, like anyone else would sweep away a piece of trash that blew into their path. “She’s nothing. And you’re going to put her out of her misery.”

“Explain.”

Without looking, Moriarty held out his hand to Sebastian. Sebastian pulled a second gun and a knife from his hip and gave them to Moriarty, the first gun still trained on the girl.

Moriarty accepted the weapons and approached Sherlock. He cut the ties from Sherlock’s wrist with the knife, and then pressed the gun into Sherlock’s right hand. He wrapped Sherlock’s fingers around the grip with his own, looking amused.

“You need to learn, Sherlock. No one matters but us. Nothing matters but this.” Moriarty inclined his head towards the laptop, where John still stood, motionless. “I decided to be kind and give you some motivation. Just for the first one. If you don’t kill Caroline, I will kill Johnny.” He paused. “Of course, I would be happy either way. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

Moriarty drew Sherlock to his feet and steered him around the desk. Sherlock looked at the girl sobbing at his feet, feeling numb. He didn’t know her. He didn’t care about her, other than in the most abstract sense. Only in the way that he cared about the victim of any crime. It was professional curiosity.  

No, Sherlock could not rely on himself as a moral compass. The better question was: what would John do? Sherlock was fairly certain he wouldn’t kill this girl. He would probably turn the gun on Moriarty. Shoot him right between his beady eyes. Sebastian would kill him immediately, but John wouldn’t mind sacrificing himself. That was the kind of man he was.

He would hate having to sacrifice Sherlock’s life in the process, but Sherlock was certain John would still try to kill Moriarty. In John’s mind, not even Sherlock’s life could outweigh the millions of lives he could save by ending the war right now. That was one of the reasons Sherlock loved him.

Sherlock, however, was not John. The lives of millions of strangers did not outweigh John’s. The life of this one girl definitely didn’t outweigh John’s, no matter how scared she looked.

Moriarty touched Sherlock’s shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. “Come on, Sherlock. Time’s up.”

Caroline wiped some snot off her face. “Please. Please don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”

Moriarty ignored her. “Sherlock.” His voice was full of warning. “Now or never, darling.”

Sherlock balked. “Moriarty-”

Moriarty slapped him across the face. Hard. “I asked you to call me _JIM_!” His face was twisted in reinforcing waves of fury and insanity. “Sebastian, give Henry the signal. Maybe I’ll have Johnny stuffed after he’s dead. I know a great taxidermist. That way we can keep him around forever. Our own little pet.”

Sherlock imagined whipping the butt of the gun right into Moriarty’s sharp nose. He imagined the crunching sound of the cartilage breaking, the brightness and smell of the blood as it poured from his broken face to stain his expensive suit. He imagined bringing the gun up again, pressing it to Moriarty’s temple, ending this once and for all.

He imagined doing the right thing.

Sherlock raised the gun with a steady hand. He aimed. He fired.

Caroline collapsed. Sherlock refused to look at the small hole oozing blood in the center of her forehead. John would not have killed her. But Sherlock was not John. He was not that brave.

"You see?" Moriarty wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist from behind. He must have stood on his toes, because he rubbed his cheek against the flaming red palm print blooming on Sherlock's cheek. "We are the same. We'd do anything to get what we want."

Sherlock held the gun loosely and stared at a random point on the wall across from him.

Moriarty tightened his embrace. "I'm so proud of you."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the tag changes. The line has officially been crossed.

Sherlock gripped Moriarty’s forearm with his free hand, but made no move to alter their positions. The girl was heaped in front of them, her blood draining onto the expensive carpet. It mattered little. Sherlock had already forgotten her name, deleted it, whatever.

This was no time to dwell. He knew what he had to do. If Moriarty wanted intimacy, Sherlock would give it him. If Moriarty wanted closeness, he could have it. What was it John had said to him the day he’d discovered Sherlock’s infidelity? _To give up the self is to betray the self_. John hadn’t meant it, but, in every practical way, it was the truth. Moriarty’s obsession, his desire to be _known_ , was the rope Sherlock would use to hang him.

Sherlock dug his nails into Moriarty’s arm until he was sure the crescent-shaped indentations would last long after he let go. Moriarty grunted in response, and Sherlock took that as his cue to speak. “I imagine John would be rather upset if he knew about this.”

“I imagine he would be.” Amusement thickened Moriarty’s words, and they oozed into Sherlock’s ear like cold honey. “I, however, see the bigger picture. Did you think about using that gun on me?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched reflexively. Moriarty smiled when he felt the muscles tense against his cheek. “Because John means more to me than a stranger.”

Moriarty _tsked_ gently, in the same way a parent would scold a wayward child. “Because Johnny is more useful to you than a stranger.” He loosened his arms as he made the correction and moved to stand at Sherlock’s side. “But we both know that wasn’t the only reason.”

The late afternoon sun flooded through the windows behind them; their shadows crawled over the dead girl and up the opposite wall. They merged together in such a way that one could not tell where one shadow ended and the other began.

Moriarty nudged Sherlock with his shoulder. The shadows swayed. “I want to hear you say it.”

Sherlock didn’t even have to lie. “The world is more interesting with you in it.”

Moriarty hummed happily. “My methods can be harsh, but I wanted you to see, Sherlock. You can’t let lesser minds hold you back.”

“John was always jealous of you. Resentful of the time I spent thinking about you. It got to the point where he fussed if I so much as said your name.” As he was speaking, Sherlock thumbed the safety on the gun and slid the magazine free. He pulled the slide back and peered into the chamber. Sebastian raised his own gun, but Moriarty waved him off.

Two bullets left.

Sherlock reassembled the firearm, but left the safety on. “He thought you would steal me away.”

“Don’t be stupid, Sherlock. You never belonged to him.”

With deliberate slowness, Sherlock walked backwards and slid the gun onto the desk. Any furtive movements would be instantly caught and analyzed by Moriarty’s quick mind. Only the blatantly obvious would be deemed unworthy of attention. That was another of the frailties of genius, and one with which Sherlock was painfully familiar.

He left the gun there and stepped away from the desk. There was nothing to be done until John was free. This was exactly why he’d drugged him in the first place. “What would you have me do?”

Moriarty smiled his mad, oily smile. It was a wonder his teeth weren’t dripping with black. “I want you to be yourself. Follow your instincts! What do you want?”

Sherlock allowed himself to smile back. What he wanted to do was burn the thread of Moriarty’s life out of existence. But that wasn’t what Moriarty wanted to hear, so he would have to improvise. “I want freedom.”

Moriarty nodded encouragingly. He gestured for Sherlock to continue. “Freedom from what? Don’t let little things like legality or societal convention put you off.”

“Freedom from tedious things.”

“Those tedious things being…?”

“Expectation. My brother. People in general.”

“Oh. Oh, Sherlock.” Moriarty prowled forward until he stood directly in front of Sherlock. Stillness settled over his lithe body, but not a lazy stillness; on the contrary, it was a stillness that seethed with potential energy. A leopard lounging on the Serengeti. “You sweet talker. You know exactly what to say to get me going. It’s uncanny.” He rubbed his fingers gently over the marks Sherlock had just left on his forearm. “I know what you’re doing, but I don’t mind. Because you’re also telling the truth.”

Hunger shimmered hotly in Moriarty’s dark eyes. “I’m all about the truth, babe. I’m no fascist – nothing like your brother. I don’t sacrifice truth to the welfare of the state. I’m the beacon on the hill. I am the purest freedom you’ll ever have.”  

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Is this where you pull out a camera and force me to blow you while you film it? Will you send it to Mycroft after?”

The vulgarity brought a distinctly unimpressed looked to Moriarty’s face. “Honestly, Sherlock, are you still sore about that? Let me pose a hypothetical. What do you think wounded our Johnny more: the time he sucked my dick or the time he found out about all the men who were sucking your dick?” His voice turned flat, venomous. “Turns out, neither of us cared much about his feelings, did we? Oh, dear.”

Sherlock shook his head. Deny, deny, deny. What he had done was nothing like what Moriarty had done. Sherlock cared. He loved. That made a difference. John said so.

A phone materialized in Moriarty’s hand. He smiled widely. “It’s alright, Sherlock. In fact, I have a confession to make.” He fiddled with his phone until he found the file he was looking for. “I sent Johnny a picture, but the truth is, I have videos as well. Quite a few of them. You were a very naughty boy.” He started the video he’d brought up and shoved the screen into Sherlock’s face. “I watch them sometimes, when I’m lonely.”

Looking away would be cowardice. Sherlock watched as a man he didn’t remember backed him against a wall. The man unzipped Sherlock’s trousers and took him into his mouth.

Sherlock watched until the Sherlock on the screen threw his head back against the wall. That was quite enough. He shifted his eyes to Moriarty, making sure to fill them with stony indifference. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Jim, but you seem a bit obsessed.”

Delight blossomed on Moriarty’s face. He brought his hand to Sherlock’s face, one thumb tracing the bow of his top lip. Sherlock let him. “Good boy.” Moriarty’s voice was breathy. “My name in your voice…what a treat. And to answer your earlier question: no. I’m not going to pull out a camera and force you to blow me. There’s no need.” As an unwelcome reminder, he poked his phone into Sherlock’s stomach.

“But I am going to give you another choice. I was going to wait until you came to me for this, but you’ve performed so beautifully over the last few minutes that I just can’t help myself. So here are your options: either I kiss you here-” Moriarty tapped his thumb against Sherlock’s lips “-or I kiss you here.” He brushed the hand holding the phone lightly over Sherlock’s crotch. “Which would you rather?”

Body or soul; that was the real question.

Amusement crinkled the corners of Moriarty’s eyes. He was enjoying Sherlock’s hesitation. “Or Sebastian could do it. I’m not averse to watching. Though, fair warning: he probably won’t use his mouth.”  

Sebastian kissed the knuckles of his left hand and winked suggestively.

Control. Control was Sherlock’s greatest strength. He never would have survived childhood with an empathic Adept like Mycroft without it. Fear, disgust, panic. Guilt. Shame. Those emotions had no role in these proceedings. Put them in the white oak box. Lock it. Cope.

If he could kill a girl for John, surely he could do this. It was so much less.

Sherlock turned his head slightly and drew Moriarty’s finger, which still lingered near his lips, into his mouth. He sucked lightly, prompting Moriarty to exhale noisily.

“As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, Sherlock, I could interpret this in a number of a ways.”

Sherlock let the finger slide out of his mouth, and made sure to pitch his voice lower than usual. “Let John go and you can put your mouth wherever you want.”

“Oh, are we negotiating now?” Moriarty sang, sly. His eyes hovered over Sherlock’s lips. “What makes you think I’m interested in negotiation?”

“It’s what you like, is it not? Our give and take?”

“Oh. Oh, oh, oh.” Moriarty stood on his the tips of his toes and nipped Sherlock’s nose. “Good boy. You remembered. So long as you also remember that it’s the _taking-_ ” he grabbed Sherlock through his trousers, forcing a grunt from Sherlock’s lips “-that I like.”

Without looking away from Sherlock, Moriarty addressed Sebastian. “Be a dear and tell our friend Peter to hold off on Johnny for, say…twenty-four hours? Does that sound fair?”

Sherlock inclined his head. Twenty-four hours to think. Not bad. Moriarty must be feeling generous. And confident.

What an arrogant prick.

Sebastian saluted and pulled out a mobile of his own. “Will do, boss.”

There was no transition. As soon as the words were out of Sebastian’s mouth, Moriarty was on him.

Around him.

Inside him.  

Sherlock choked around Moriarty’s tongue in his mouth. His hands spasmed against Moriarty’s slim shoulders. The muscles in his back shivered under Moriarty’s rough touch. The faint scent of vanilla reached Sherlock’s nose – Moriarty’s moisturizer; only a complete moron would be surprised to learn that a self-proclaimed emperor is vain enough to splurge on good anti-wrinkle cream. – and mixed with the stench of Sherlock’s unwashed clothes. All of it combined was nauseating. 

Moriarty drove Sherlock back until his thighs banged against the hard edge of the desk. He tugged at Sherlock’s hair, demanding participation, reciprocation. His bruising intensity only abated out of necessity, when the need for air became too much.

With his lips free, Sherlock turned his head to the side, gasping.

“That’s it, Sherlock. Just like that.” Moriarty spoke the words gently. He put his cold hands on either side of Sherlock’s hot face and turned him back. They were inches apart, their eyes locked, black on grey. “That was just lovely, dear. Perfect.” He took a half step back, his fingers digging painfully into the flesh around Sherlock’s eyes. “Now drop those trousers.”

Sherlock reached for his belt and tried to keep breathing.

 

* * *

 

Sweat pooled in the small of John’s back and dripped uncomfortably down the back of his neck. Nothing else moved. Not Holy Peter, who stood in front of John, staring at his mobile. Not the red dots on John’s chest. And definitely not John’s feet, which hadn’t strayed from the mark on floor since he’d stepped onto it. Everyone was waiting.

Finally, an eternity later, Holy Peter’s phone chimed. “About time.” He swiped his finger across the screen and his eyebrows rose into his dark hair. “How anti-climatic.”

Holy Peter tucked his phone into his pocket. Disappointment was evident in the downward slope of his brow and the purse of his lips. John felt a small part of himself relax. “Looks like Holmes took one for the team, wolf. You live another day.”

John’s head snapped up. “Sherlock? What do you mean _took one for the team_?” His muscles strained forward. Damn Sherlock. Damn him for leaving John behind.

“Ugh. Tiresome.” Holy Peter leaned his weight into his staff. “Your perversions against nature aside, you are dull in the extreme. I see why the Emperor detests you so.”

His fists clenched. “I swear to God-”

Holy Peter cracked his staff against the ground with a resounding bang. The sound echoed eerily in the nearly empty warehouse. “Who is it you’re swearing to? Not my God, surely?”

John bared his teeth. This man was slippery. John reached out with the Aura and once again tried to find Holy Peter’s heart. It was to no avail; like Adler and the soldiers in the woods, Holy Peter was beyond his touch. How the hell did they do that?

A humourless smile split Holy Peter’s face. “You must think I’m an extremist. A fanatic. Am I right?” He stalked closer to John, his staff thudding on the ground with each step. “I’m going to let you in on little secret, John Watson. You think James Moriarty is the devil? To the contrary, wolf. He’s the new god. And unlike the old one, he’s quite generous with those who serve him well. So, you see, I’m not fanatical. Fanaticism is self-defeating while I am eminently practical.”

Slippery, and a silver tongue. A dangerous combination. Sherlock was living proof of that. “What is Moriarty doing with Sherlock?”

Holy Peter sighed. “If the Emperor wants your boyfriend as his plaything, who am I to pass judgment? You should be more worried about yourself.”

Plaything. The thought alone sent John’s heart racing. Sweat still traced itself over his skin, but instead of feeling hot, he felt the clammy chill of an oncoming panic attack. Once again, there was no time for this.

He directed the Aura inwards, calming the adrenaline that washed through his body. His body was demanding fight or flight, and he could do neither. Sherlock needed him, and all he had was the Aura and himself. It seemed like so little.

Except…it had been enough before. Deep in the bowels of Moriarty’s fortress in the Colonies, all John had was himself and the Aura. He’d made it out then. Maybe he could make it out now.

John’s eyes, which had drifted shut while he worked on his insides, fluttered open.

_Oh_.

Golden webs of neurons fired rapidly in his head. They sparked and sputtered through the blackness and the blueness of his mind, bursting through the fabric of his thoughts. Connections snapped together, as if they had always been.

Was this what Sherlock felt like all the time?

_Oh. Wow._

John looked at Holy Peter through a blur of tears and smiled. He could do this. He had a plan.


End file.
